


My Love For You Is A Song Unsung

by Sherwings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Contemplative John, Declarations Of Love, Descriptions of disturbing injuries, Dreams, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Magic Realism, Minor Violence, Mostly John Watson POV, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Slash, Protective Sherlock, Romance, Slash, Slow Build, Soul Bond, This fic is fraught with many many emotions, Wingfic, soul mates, though only a couple and not overly graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-04 19:02:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 107,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3083759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherwings/pseuds/Sherwings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson has experienced much loss in his life. It is a world where Soul Bonds are made every day of varying degrees and types, and Soul Magic is commonplace. Some people even have Wings. He has lost Soul Mates and was left with nothing but a painful reminder upon his skin, and yet, though he and Sherlock Holmes never Soul Connected John Watson has never felt a loss so keenly.<br/>It has been two years since Sherlock Holmes jumped to his death. John is living in a cottage in Sussex, resigned to his grief and living an exceptionally ordinary, lonely life.<br/>He does not know his life is about to be turned upside down yet again, by the very same man he believes to be dead. A serial killer, long held emotions brought to life and many surprises follow in the wake of Sherlock Holmes return.<br/>Will John embrace the reality he never thought possible? Will he forgive?<br/>Can Sherlock heal from the traumas of his own past?<br/>This is a love story between two men obviously meant to be together, yet too stubborn and hurt to realize how much they mean to the other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [goldheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldheart/gifts).



> Hello all! This fic is the result of another Secret Santa fan fic exchange on the fan forum I am apart of. And this is the prompt I recieved: 'I’d love a Post-Reichenbach Reunion that isn’t S3 canon-compliant, with pre-slash to slash Johnlock and a Sherlock with sad emotions. Crying is acceptable from either or both parties. AU - Soulmates preferred. Would generally like to read about Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Casefic, Wingfic, Soulmates, Magic Realism, Post-Reichenbach reunion (non S3)'  
> I have tried to follow the prompt as closely as possible, with a few additions of my own ;), and the result is this monster fic that swallowed all my time! xD  
> It is completed, however there is some minor tweaking that needs doing so I will be posting one chapter per day (or every other day) until it is completed. No WIP here, so no worries!  
> It is edited, and beta'd, however as with all fan fiction there is the potential for mistakes to slip through the net. Here's hoping any that are in this story are only minor and don't hinder your ability to enjoy it! And if there are any, I apologize.  
> I loved writing it and to those who read it, I hope you enjoy it! :D <3

 

  _How did I end up here?_

John wonders, as the last vestiges of sleep drift away and for a moment all he feels is peace, a blissful ignorance...a feeling that is quickly shattered by the memory of his dream, and a hollow aching sensation echoes throughout his body. He resists the urge to cry. He doesn’t cry. He won’t – _can_ _’_ _t_ let himself. John Watson’s life may feel out of control to him, but he is – _was_ a soldier, a doctor, and has seen death many times over...he can do this one thing and not let himself cry.

John lets out a shaky breath and closes his eyes. His hands clench beneath the flannel bed sheets in an effort to control the tears threatening to break free. An image from a long ago memory, yet still so close to his heart, is brought forward by the dream and resounds powerfully through his mind - _curls, rain, copper, blood, pavement vacant eyes, shock_ \- he quickly opens his eyes again, and the mirage of a man still so important to one John Watson flashes in front of his eyes before disappearing into oblivion...much like the man himself.

Now wide awake, John pushes himself into a sitting position and rests against his headboard. He angrily bangs his head against the wall, relishing that particular pain but cursing the one now throbbing with vengeance in his leg...as if it were saying “ _I am your only companion now_ _”_ _...as if I need the reminder._

John laughs bitterly. He glances down at his bare arm, barely illuminated by the beginnings of dawn. John only has two live soul marks (his father and Greg Lestrade, the latter a surprise that occurred shortly after meeting the DI, and just another connection between him and his deceased best-friend), crackling with a feeling akin to electricity under his skin. There are two other burned marks close to his inner elbow, they are all that are left of the soul mates he once had, though he doesn’t need a physical burn to remember the pain of their passing; his mother, and the man he met while on tour in Afghanistan, Bill. Living through their deaths hadn’t been easy, it never is when a soul mate dies, no matter what place they hold –friend, parent etc. A part of John has always felt mystified that neither he nor Sherlock developed a mark when they met. Sherlock never commented on that fact. Despite that, John doubts either of them had ever connected to another person the way they did with each other...an incredible feat, John knew, coming from the Detective.

Honestly, as bloody annoying as the bastard was, a more hidden part of John can admit that he wouldn’t have been surprised if he and Sherlock grew wings (and there’s a thought that adds more salt to his sore heart wound). But they never did.

There exists in this world soul marks (permanent fingerprint marks that appear anywhere on the body, unique to the individual, when one meets a soul mate, this could be anyone from a friend to family), soul wings (everyone is born with small nubbins between their shoulder blades, these are what can give everyone the opportunity to grow wings. Whether that’s as a child or an adult, it only happens once you meet your deep soul mate. The one person, who perfectly complements your soul, knows you on a level no one else can. This could also be a family member or a friend, but it is most commonly a person you have a romantic connection with) and soul magic...the latter is a side effect of the first two. Once you meet a soul mate, your souls automatically tap into each other, no one knows exactly why or how (it’s the way it always has been) but it opens a gateway that allows both individuals to perform mostly minor abilities (and some are only able to be performed in the presence of the other). This could be anything from empathic telepathy to being able to instantly heat up a cup of tea (one John acquired early on in life, due to his mother, and lived on even after her death, something that typically only happens with what is considered minor magic) with the touch of a finger. Soul wing abilities are the most powerful ones, the wings become the physical manifestation of the magic through which your soul works and connects (it is the same with the marks), and once that happens deep soul mates (of which there is only one per individual) often have full telepathy (only with each other), can do telekinesis, heal minor to major wounds or even short ranged flight.

All this came up often during The Work, John knows that the whole concept of soul marks, wings and magic has always...irked the Detective; he understands the basic concepts much like everyone else but it is a science that can’t be entirely quantified or logically explained. John had wondered if that was why Sherlock never talked about his own markings, but later he thought there must be another reason. In all the time they lived together, John never even saw Sherlock’s soul marks (though the Detective deduced exactly how many –burned and live –John possessed within minutes of meeting). Whenever John brought it up Sherlock either would sigh in boredom or ignore him altogether. Initially John chuckled when he thought they might be on his arse, something he has seen happen before during his many years as a doctor (and a proficient lover), but that theory quickly left John’s mind as he didn’t allow himself to follow that particular train of thought for long...no reason to after all, John always told himself.

He does know that at least Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade are two soul mates of Sherlock’s, since they both told him though Sherlock himself has never explicitly confirmed so. Mrs. Hudson is the living proof that a mother doesn’t have to be related by blood, and Lestrade is the proof that soul mate or not you can still get an often uncontrollable urge to punch said soul mate; a trait both he and the DI often related with, and not just because he and the man were soul mates. John and Greg have an interesting relationship (though the two haven’t spoken for a few months), since the latter was both soul mates with the Detective and his loyal Blogger, very strong camaraderie and mutual understanding more than anything else.

John has absolutely no idea what the deal was with Sherlock and Mycroft. Given the odd and reclusive nature of the Holmes brothers, they could be anything.

And John wasn’t the only one surprised by the fact that Sherlock and he didn’t present as soul mates. Mycroft never alluded to any surprise though, any thought he might’ve had was well kept behind his stony facade.

John groans, abruptly cutting off his wandering mind... _too bloody early for that._

At the thought he turns his head to glance at the clock on his nightstand: 6:00am.

As if the haunting dream and subsequent mind wandering weren’t indication enough, John can already tell this is going to be a particularly bad day.

Everyday for the past two years has felt like a battle, less urgent now than at first...but the battle has never ceased. Even when he left Baker Street a year after (the cloying reminders of his dead best friend and borderline claustrophobic nature of the place felt like they were killing him) and moved far from London (something he never thought he’d do) into a well kept cottage left to him in Sherlock’s will (the Detective had never mentioned the cottage before, so when John found out he was surprised and a little confused, Mycroft never explained it), the battle never stopped.

If you were to look at John Watson now, walking somewhat uneasily out of bed and into the loo adjoined to his bedroom, you would think a part of his soul had been ripped away. Soul mate or no, in his most vulnerable moments, John can admit to himself that is what it feels like, he should know.

Sherlock Holmes is _gone_ , yet he continues to severely impact the life of John Watson still. John splashes his face with cold water, and allows a single tear to fall. _No more. No more._

Though he tells himself this, the ache in his heart he can’t deny tells him there will be more and he is far from the stable healed man he’d like to be.

John turns around and looks out the single window in the loo, and takes a deep breath. Who would’ve thought that adrenaline, danger addicted, adoring of London, ex-soldier and Doctor John Watson would one day be grateful for the peaceful atmosphere of the Sussex countryside, and the boring lifestyle of a part-time country doctor.

Certainly not John Watson.

_How did I end up here?_

         

 

Meanwhile, in the distance a woman with bright red hair and cold focus watches the cottage, her navy blue jacket flapping delicately in the soft wind; her confidence and quiet anger absolute in her rigid stance within the field, shadowed by a tree, outside of the home of John Watson.

“I’m waiting, Sherlock Holmes.”She whispers, her words go unanswered and lost amongst the countryside.

However, not so far away, as if he heard, Sherlock Holmes has left his pseudo exile with his own brand of anger, motivated by fear he would never admit to ( _John, John, John..._ ) fueling his speed towards John Watson.

It’s time to come back to life.


	2. What would I do without your smart mouth?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since the prologue is so short, I'm posting Chapter 1 along with it. I will post another chapter tomorrow :)

Chapter 1

 

         

“Bloody buggering hell!”John groans as he stubs his toe on one of the few chairs in the kitchen.

If John were still at 221b, and Sherlock were alive, he is sure that he would’ve heard a deep rumbling chuckle at his expense. The thought causes a pained yet genuine smile to crease John’s mouth.

Carefully navigating the small kitchen at the back of the house, John walks up to the stove and quickly deposits water from the tap into the kettle and sets it to boil. Without thinking he pulls down two mugs, and is setting a tea bag in his own when he notices what he’s done.

John sighs and rests his elbows on the counter, letting his head fall into his open palms.

_I_ _’_ _m really off my game today_. For once John wishes he didn’t have the next couple of days off, he could use the distraction of the boring yet consistent work, it is just his luck that time off has fallen on a bad day. The weather growing steadily gloomy outside is just the icing on the bloody proverbial cake.

It’s come to the point where the grief is an old friend, a reminder of what he had; he almost doesn’t want to let it go. _Almost._

_What the hell John! Seriously, snap out of it._

The high-pitched whistling of the kettle draws John out of his groggy state of mind.

After John has poured the water and steeped the tea, he walks with it into the den and relaxes in a cream coloured lounger by the unlit fireplace. He leans back with more pressure when he feels an ache along his upper back.

When he found out the cottage was already fully furnished, John quickly made the decision of leaving all but one item at 221b.

The item he chose to keep ( _sentiment John, really?_ He can almost hear Sherlock speak in his head) sits atop the mantle of the fireplace, much like it did in the London flat.

The irony that the skull is now his closest friend, when it was once Sherlock’s, is not lost on him. He’s still not entirely sure why he kept it.

John sips his tea (tapping the side of the mug once with his index finger to return it to a scalding, comforting heat) and gazes around the living area, like he does most mornings when he doesn’t have work.

He is especially aware of the silence right now, and it is painful.

Back in the kitchen, the second mug John had retrieved still stands atop the counter; empty, and forgotten.

 

***

 

The rest of John’s morning routine unravels itself as it normally does. After finishing his tea, John retrieved the paper from outside just before it truly got the chance to be rained upon by the increasingly horrid weather (small blessings), took a long shower in a foolish attempt to will his thoughts into safer and not quite so dark territory (it didn’t work), got dressed, opened his deteriorating laptop and checked his email (ignoring the pang he felt when he was reminded yet again of the blog he abandoned after the death of his friend...somehow the word seems inadequate, more so to John’s subconscious), made the minimum responses as to his well being from the friends and family who tend to email instead of phone, and afterwards lost himself in a novel most assuredly as far from crime orientated as he could find.

The rain prevents John from doing what he normally would’ve done, like go for a walk, or explore the gardens in the backyard (somewhat barren, since he’s only recently made the decision to possibly begin work on them), just another example of the strangely pleasant monotony of his routine. However, because of the weather John is still sitting on the sofa and reading his novel, boring and horribly written...but at least it keeps his mind somewhat occupied, again, small blessings.

One thing that hasn’t been a small blessing is that with the combination of the weather and John’s grief making itself especially known today, his leg –though he’s never had to use his cane again –has decided today would be a great day to revive itself and begin aching heavily.

John’s mobile suddenly starts ringing loudly in the silence of the cottage. John sighs and closes his book, ignoring the unusual twinge in his upper back (different from ordinary back pain, _what the bloody hell is that?_ ) as he leans forward to retrieve his mobile from the coffee table in front of him.

_Greg._

John frowns. Though soul mates, the two of them seemed to reach an unspoken agreement of speaking only rarely, and ever since John moved to the country they’ve only seen each other twice. Neither will ever fully acknowledge it, but it is both a painful and relieving experience for them to see and talk to each other. The reminder of the tall man in a Belstaff coat no longer with them seems only larger when they are together, even when they are only speaking and not seeing each other face to face. And when they do meet face to face, the soul finger print mark ( _Sherlock_ _’_ _s_ finger print) on Lestrade’s hand still shines with a faint glow, a sight that only adds vinegar to their wounds. Neither one of them know why it didn’t burn out, but there have been reports of individuals whose soul marks on others don’t burn out even in death, so despite the rarity of it they accepted that Sherlock must be one of those people (further confirmed by the fact that Mrs. Hudson’s didn’t burn out either)...even more unforgettable than most.

They do talk to each other, just not often. John knows that if he and Greg didn’t have a soul connection, it is likely he would’ve abstained from contact altogether. Without the added compulsion and borderline duty to see and talk to one you have a soul connection with, John knows he could not have bared being around someone that reminded him so completely of Sherlock and their life as Detective and Blogger.

And that thought just leads to another, and another, one of which is John being reminded yet again that there is so much he never said to his best friend...words he wished he had the courage to say, words he didn’t even himself understand or fully see how they were possible, feelings he knew he could never find the words to say...he let them go when he realized he would never be able to say them, even when his therapist Ella encouraged him too. He only spoke a bare minimum at Sherlock’s grave, he can’t even say the words to himself even now...the feelings, this sense, only over the years it has gotten stronger...like having the most overwhelming urge to run but realizing you have no feet.

A warm feeling builds up behind John’s eyes. _"_ _Fuck._ _”_ He curses angrily and presses his fingers perhaps too hard in the corners of his eyes.

It’s not as if Sherlock was his soul mate for god’s sake! Perhaps one of the worst side effects of Sherlock’s fall is that John can barely recognize himself anymore, interests that once brought him relief no longer hold his attention, his state of mind goes from how it was before he met Sherlock to a state of emotional mess and denial (like today). It’s as if any control he developed as a soldier and a doctor dissolves whenever it pleases.

The mobile continues to ring. Summoning whatever strength he has, he digs his palm painfully into his aching leg and swipes his thumb across the screen, raising the phone to his ear.

“Hello Greg.”John speaks with a steadiness he didn’t think was possible given the circumstances.

_“_ _Hey, we haven_ _’_ _t talked for a while, figured I_ _’_ _d give you a ring see how you were. Still alive?_ _”_ Greg utters the last words with a chuckle, but there is shakiness to it. He wasn’t the only one that was concerned for a while that John would kill himself after what happened to Sherlock.

John found those concerns, still does, very annoying. Later he begrudgingly admitted to himself that was because he did indeed come close to doing just that once or twice. Sherlock’s death hit him harder than he ever thought possible.

John, playing along, laughs back.

“A bit knackered, but I’m fine.”John insists, trying to sell it as best he can.

There is a pause.

_“_ _Bad day huh?_ _”_

One of the delightful perks of being soul mates with Greg is that he can always tell if John is lying, and vice versa. Some would think this ability is inherent to soul mates, but it isn’t. And it is one they discovered with some wariness when they initially connected, now it just seems normal, and it also another reason why John has been reluctant to talk with him ever since Sherlock. Talking to someone who knows when you’re lying while trying to keep up the pretense that you’re doing better than you are isn’t helpful.

Johns only reassurance is that even though Greg can tell when he’s lying, he can’t tell precisely what it is he’s lying about.

John sighs. “You could say that.” _What else is new?_

_"_ _Hm._ _”_ One of the things John most likes about Greg is that even when he knows he’s lying, he won’t necessarily call him out on it. Something mister high-functioning sociopath would have never been able to do. _“_ _You sure?_ _”_

“Yes.”

_“_ _Alright then._ _”_

The pause following those two words is awkward. The rain outside gets increasingly louder as it continues to gush and soak the ground.

John breathes heavily, and is just about to say something when he hears Greg sigh deeply at the other end of the line.

_“_ _Look John, knowing what day it is, I just wanted to ring you and see how you were dealing, I know I_ _–_ _"_

“What are you talking about?”John interrupts, utterly nonplussed.

_“_ _...You_ _’_ _re kidding right? Seriously, are you ok?_ _”_

“Of course I-”

It only takes John a moment, after glancing at the local newspaper he has yet to read –his eyes skimming quickly over an article about a homicide in town –and noticing the date... _oh god._

John can already feel the stirrings of a panic attack. Whether that’s because he nearly forgot for the first time, or the lack of foreboding anticipation of the date and being suddenly hit with the significance of it all at once...John doesn’t know. But he tries desperately to calm down his nerves despite his roaring emotions.

It is the two year anniversary of Sherlock’s death.

_“_ _John? John?!_ _”_

John is brought from the brink by the sound of Greg’s urgent voice.

There are the stirrings of cold sweat forming on John’s forehead, his face a somewhat shaky mask as he swipes a clammy hand down it, his elbows now rest on his knees.

“I was just...”John sighs, not knowing how or maybe just not caring to finish that sentence.

_“_ _I know._ _”_ Greg Lestrade’s tone is heavy, grief and faint control making his voice sound forced.

John can empathize with that.

The silence this time is long, and laden with many unspoken words. John is not good at this kind of talk, and even if he were, there is no way he could handle having this talk about Sherlock...he just...can’t. _How could I have forgotten?_

_Why couldn_ _’_ _t I have continued to forget?_ John laughs inwardly with pained humour, even in death the bloody bugger is a constant presence in his life as if he were taunting him _‘_ _you will never forget me_ _’_ ...John doesn’t want to, but sometimes he does...if only to make the pain go away. John knows that isn’t possible, he has experienced enough loss to know that, but as Sherlockian wisdom would have it; emotions are irrational.

“Listen Greg, I have to go and...Mow the lawn.”Raining or not it is a pathetic excuse even for him, but his mind is clearly a barmy mess right now and he can’t think of anything better.

Greg sighs.

_“_ _Alright John, take care of yourself._ _”_

“I’ll survive. Keep in touch yeah?”That at least is honest.

_“_ _That makes two of us, and of course._ _”_

Neither of them hangs up yet, even though John desperately wants to he senses that Greg has something further to say...John feels a sense of apprehension as to what it could be.

_“_ _I would need many more hands to count the amount of times I wanted to punch the bastard, but god I miss him._ _”_

John’s heart clenches. _So do I, always._ John doesn’t say those words out loud.

“Yeah.”John breathes out wearily. There is another pause, this time Greg is the one waiting for John to finish. “Talk to you later Greg.”

_“_ _You as well, try not to get too drunk, I_ _’_ _m not nearly close enough to drag your arse home and make sure you don_ _’_ _t get run over by some bloody cab._ _”_

John laughs, Greg does too, though the sounds are both hollow. They both know John fully intends on getting drunk, it is an anniversary ritual; it’s just that this time John will do it in the privacy of the cottage. He is suddenly immensely grateful for the two bottles of whiskey he bought when he last went shopping.

“Ta Greg.”

_“_ _Take care John._ _”_

He hangs up, clutching the phone tightly in his hand.

 

If anyone were watching from outside they would see a man standing slowly, hands clenching abnormally tight at his sides, tension rigid throughout his entire body. They would see his mouth open, presumably in an angry scream as he throws his phone with incredible force at the wall opposite, they would see it shatter and watch as the man collapses onto the sofa, head falling mournfully into his open hands, shoulders releasing the tension and shaking with sorrow instead.

Little does the man know that someone _is_ watching.

 

 ***

         

After cleaning up the remnants of his burst of anger (making a mental note to purchase a new phone), John decides to light a fire within the hearth; the cold rain giving the inside of the cottage a chill even a woolly jumper cannot protect against.

John usually feels better after his anger gets a release like that, not this time though.

John quickly finishes stacking the paper and kindling, he then places the tip of his left index finger on the corner of the pile and the entire concoction goes up on flames (a handy ability John acquired because of his father, never had to buy matches once in his life).

He studiously ignores the tremble in his leg as he pushes himself up to standing.

John is just about to retake his seat on the sofa and continue reading his horrible (yet distracting) novel when there is a loud pounding at the door.

_What the hell?_

John of course is rightly confused, he isn’t expecting any visitors and why would someone be knocking like the house is on fire when it is pouring rain outside? He has no neighbours for miles.

John’s soldier senses tingle up his spine, and that unusual twinge he’s been getting off and on all morning comes back to such a strong degree that it takes all of his strength not to collapse.

He heads towards the front door, not particularly caring if the person on the other side is either an insane psychopathic killer or someone who takes their soliciting very seriously.

The knocking continues.

John reaches the door and grasps the handle. With a firm and confident twist he pulls the aging wooden door open and –

“Hello John.”


	3. And I'm so dizzy, don't know what hit me...

Chapter 2

 

_I'_ _m hallucinating, I must be, because...what the...what? How...what is this the twilight zone?_

Standing in front of John Watson, in all his traditional Belstaff coat and dark curly hair (both soaking wet) glory, is the unmistakable figure of Sherlock Holmes. Consulting Detective; dead for two years... _two years._

The man in front of him looks...almost afraid, nervous. That can’t be right, Sherlock Holmes doesn’t get afraid.

         

Those opalescent eyes are fixed on John, the violinists hands twitch nervously at his sides as he gauges the reaction of his ex-blogger...shouldn’t he be...pleased? He doesn’t look pleased, why isn’t he? That doesn’t matter now. He _has_ to get inside. _John...John, it is good to see you...I never should_ _’_ _ve missed you as much as I have._

Summoning up his determination and locking away the persistent sentiment bashing around his mind, he opens his mouth to speak.

“John, while I appreciate that this must be...shocking, I assure you I am not dead nor am I a hallucination, with that covered I need to enter and I require the immediate use of your laptop. It is _urgent._ ” Sherlock is all business and very little consideration as he speaks, and those last few words are laced with something dark that John hasn’t heard in -

It all hits him like an ice cold shower; simultaneously shocking him and breaking him out of his confused daze. His hand, white knuckled and gripping the door knob like a lifeline, begins to shake and disbelief is quickly replaced with a deep and resounding anger, he is a pressure cooker ready to explode.

“ _You-_ ” John is humiliated to hear his voice come out hoarse and cracked, he breathes deeply, taking comfort in the eye of the storm feeling washing over him as he gazes at the clearly impatient detective. “You were dead, I thought...” His voice still isn’t as confident as he would like, emotions warring and overwhelming him from all sides.

Sherlock’s impatience recedes for a moment, his face flickering with regret that John is too blinded with rage right now to see.

“I will explain everything to you, I promise, just let me inside... _please._ ”

John doesn’t know why, but the almost desperate please –a word he scarcely heard from the man –being uttered by Sherlock of all people is what causes him to crack.

He rushes forward and grabs Sherlock by the lapels of his coat, so tightly that not even a crow bar would be likely to break his grip, and pushes the tall man with incredible anger fueled force into the door frame. The sound of over six feet of Holmes hitting the frame of wood and stone creates a sound loud enough to be heard over the persistent rain.

Sherlock’s eyes widen in surprise and he automatically reaches up and tries to pull Johns hands away, he doesn’t succeed.

“Two years! TWO YEARS! You heartless bastard I fucking grieved for you for TWO. BLOODY. YEARS!”John is screaming. He is angry. He is hurt. He is confused. He is relieved. He is thrilled. He is _furious._ “How could you... _why?_ ” John’s voice has gone frightfully quiet, the anger no longer a roaring noise but a quiet and dangerous one.

         

Sherlock finds himself no longer trying to pull John’s hands away from him, instead he holds onto John’s with the same amount of strength, his hands are adorned with black leather gloves.

This...this wasn’t how it was supposed to happen, none of this was how it was supposed to happen, Sherlock knew that John would be upset but this...John was supposed to be happy, delighted. Sherlock is floundering, for once in his life he is truly dumbfounded and feels like a child walking into a mine field labelled ‘John Watson’.

He is speechless for all of twelve point two seconds before he is suddenly reminded of why he is here. His determination returns full force, along with the anger, hatred and fear associated with it. He fiercely ignores the stinging pain ranging down his back. _John._

“Now is not a good-”

“NO!” John yells again, pushing Sherlock –if possible –even further into the door frame. “Right _now_ is the perfect time.” John pushes his face right up into Sherlock’s; his expression tight with barely controlled tears.

Sherlock is careful not to move or betray any pain he’s feeling from John’s actions. He puts on his most apologetic mask, surprising himself when he discovers it is not an emotion he needs to exaggerate.

“John.” Sherlock utters with a calm steadiness, though his heart is pounding away in his chest. “If I could tell you now, I would. However the explanation is too long and there is something I must confirm first, and for that I need you to let me inside and allow me the use of your laptop.” Sherlock finishes. John narrows his eyes, so many emotions present in his face that Sherlock can’t even deduce the precise nature and reasoning for them.

It is silent for a moment, and Sherlock is growing impatient once more. He decides to try a new tactic, one that has worked in the past.

“Besides, I don’t fancy myself sopping wet, I’m sure my hair looks ridiculous and your frightening jumper –I’d been hoping your taste would at least marginally improve during my absence –is getting half wet due to our awkward position of being half in and half out of the door, and since I highly doubt you keep your laptop outside –even you aren’t that much of an idiot, I do need to be on the dry half of our predicament. Although I suppose there is a benefit to this, since that is clearly a new handmade jumper you’re wearing –given to you by Mrs. Hudson most likely –obvious since there are no signs of it being preshrunk and it is quite clearly pure wool which is sensitive to shrinking when wet, it is already nearly too small for you, any more exposure could render it useless for you which would be a major relief for all of humankind I’m sure-”

John growls and releases one hand from Sherlock’s coat and covers his mouth, pressing down with increasing pressure.

“Shut up, just...shut up!” John Watson angered is a force to behold indeed. Perhaps humorously deducing the jumper, no matter how hideous, was not the wisest course of action.

Sherlock is momentarily distracted by John’s hand on his mouth, calloused by many years of using a gun, war, being a doctor, old healed grazes from one too many knocks into walls running after the Detective, so many examples of the man’s bravery present on this one appendage, there is a minor wart forming near a finger, the one close to the corner of Sherlock’s lips. For an instant, Sherlock is tempted to stick out his tongue and taste John’s hand, an impulse quickly quashed by the insistence of what he needs to be doing now and an increasing pressure across his... _shoulders?_

Johns unwavering focus on Sherlock slips for a second, something Sherlock immediately jumps upon. He notices John’s shoulders moving uncomfortably, his grip on Sherlock is lessening.

Sherlock frowns, his eyes darting with increasing speed all over John’s body, rain and any urgent matter are temporarily forgotten. John’s hand slips from Sherlock’s mouth, his body is rigid with tension not caused by anger but... _pain_ , yes, physical pain.

John pushes away from Sherlock, immediately hitting the opposite side of the door frame; the action causing the shorter man to groan loudly.

 _“_ _John!_ _”_ Instinct urges Sherlock forward. He doesn’t even notice until he is kneeling at John’s feet, after the latter has started convulsing and slid down the frame, that he himself is also experiencing pain across his shoulders and down his back. Sherlock bites his lip hard and his hands flutter uselessly around John, trying to move him yet unable to...the pain is...

It feels like multiple bones are breaking (a sensation he has experienced too many times to count) and being reformed over and over again. There is an electrical current humming through his skin and deep down to his nerves. What part of his mind palace that isn’t overrun with this overwhelming feeling of pain and quickly forming fiery warmth is shouting and panicking...because he knows what this is, oh he knows it very well. No matter his own personal feelings on the matter, it would be stupid of him if he didn’t recognize the symptoms despite never having experienced them before. He can’t control it, he wishes he could, and so he finds himself collapsing onto the ground beside John, his entire body shaking and seizing as well.

He can feel his vision blackening, just before he loses consciousness he looks towards John, surprisingly, he sees him gazing back at him his eyes slowly closing shut.

 _I_ _’_ _m sorry. I_ _’_ _m sorry. I_ _’_ _m sorry._

What exactly he is apologizing for, Sherlock doesn’t know. He is sure there are many things social standards would think he needs to apologize for.

The last thing he feels before succumbing to blackness is a flare of fear as what little logic that isn’t overrun reminds him once more of what he needs to do now and that he is stupidly encumbered by... _this_ , his mind spits angrily.

The last thing he hears is John’s voice calling his name...not in anger, but...an emotion Sherlock has a difficult time placing. He does think however that it is the first time he’s heard that voice, not in his mind palace, say his name in two years.

The last thing he sees is two gouging rips forming across Johns back.

And the last thing he says - more whimpers (though he would never admit it), is a quiet and pained – _“_ _John._ _”_

 

***

 

 _Bugger. What happened? I must_ _’_ _ve fallen asleep..._

John’s thoughts are foggy at best, memories flitting around with no clear path, his head and body pounding. He feels something soft and warm on top of him... _a blanket? Am I on the sofa? Lying down definitely...Do I have a bloody hangover? No, I_ _’_ _m sure I hadn_ _’_ _t gotten around to drinking yet..._

That thought seems to clear the fog and everything comes rushing back in one, painful, disbelieving swoop.

_Sherlock._

It hadn’t been a hallucination. It was real. It all happened so fast, so unexpectedly, but it was _real._

John is sure he’s never sat up so fast in his life; his breath comes out ragged, his eyes widen. His heart begins to race ever faster as the flurry of memories, words, feelings and everything cycles itself on repeat... _shock...pain...relief...anger, so much anger...confusion...how...why...pain, more pain...falling, Sherlock too...no, not again, must move...blackness..._

 _Most of all, Sherlock showing up without a care two years after obviously faking his death, as if it didn_ _’_ _t matter, as if he didn_ _’_ _t redefine John Watson_ _’_ _s definition of what hell really is...fuck. That bastard better have a bloody good explanation. He won_ _’_ _t, because there isn_ _’_ _t one...there surely won_ _’_ _t be, how can there be? What the hell am I going to do...?_

John doesn’t know how he can answer that question, doesn’t know what he’s going to do. A reason, he needs a reason, needs to know, more than anything... _why._

Just the thought of talking to Sherlock, causes John to feel swirls of nausea, feelings of anger, deep hurt and god...such a profound sense of pure _relief_ ( _alivealivealive_ ), among other things John doesn’t care to look too carefully at right now. He feels himself on the edge of tears and hates himself for it. He is normally such a steady person. Right now, he feels like he’s just about ready to crack again, his fists clenching painfully tight. John knows he has a temper, he also knows that despite everything, getting angry won’t help him right now...no matter how justified it is. Sherlock had always been one to push his buttons after all.

Somewhere, someone is having a go at him, he’s sure of it, because really...the two year anniversary of Sherlock’s “death”is the day that the man himself comes back...well, he doesn’t know whether to laugh or punch something – _someone._

John’s mind is still foggy and aching, and there is an odd feeling he can’t quite place reverberating everywhere from heart to stomach to back. There is also a new inherent feeling that John can only describe as a sense he never had before, like...his heartbeat is echoing _back_ at him...but how is that possible? He knows there’s something he’s missing, some detail his addled brain has yet to notice.

Where is Sherlock? Run off again?

John refuses to acknowledge the slight panic he feels at that thought (really, it shouldn’t be possible to never want to see someone again and yet at the same time never want to let them go) and finally looks around the room he’s in; the living room of the cottage. The fire is curiously going strong, the rain has stopped and the sky is darkening and covered with grey cloud. The front door is closed, a quilted blanket John remembers noticing in his now bedroom when he first moved in is covering him. The Belstaff coat and John’s jumper are draped carefully over John’s usual chair, both with oddly identical rips along their backs... _what?_

John is preparing to stand when he finally notices he is nude from the waist up, bare chest glistening in the firelight.

 _What the_ _–_ _Sherlock!_

John groans in frustration, wondering why on earth Sherlock thought it was ok to strip him half naked. He is about to yell his name when an itching sensation causes him to reach behind himself and scratch his back –

John freezes for a moment and then...this time, John does yell... _loudly._

“What the –shit!”

John thinks he hears frantic footsteps pounding towards his direction from upstairs, but he is too distracted right now to do anything more than jump around trying to see his own back...because there, where the normal little nubs on his upper shoulders once were, are the beginnings of wings; forming slowly, almost too slowly to notice, bones protruding and feathers already spreading out in layers upon layers; mostly Down at this point, with the other types just beginning to make an appearance. The shafts of them are deep blood red and the waxy coating of new and growing feathers cover them, many shades of blue and cold jade green with rivulets of brown gold already visible flash brilliantly; zinging with energy that has John currently standing stock still, with his head turned at an awkward angle to gaze at them, breathing heavily, utterly gobsmacked.

A part of John notes that the shades of colour are the exact same as Sherlock’s eyes...

 _This can_ _’_ _t be happening. It_ _’_ _s not possible._ It is nearly unheard of for two...deep soul mates ( _oh god, that_ _’_ _s what Sherlock and he are aren_ _’_ _t they?_ ) to not develop wings upon first meeting, which is why John assumed Sherlock and he weren’t, but not impossible. Everything he’d thought, every feeling and impulse he’d been feeling since he saw Sherlock standing outside his home in the rain, is suddenly wiped away...it is not unlike the feeling of being shot, no pain at first, just blanket shock, the pain comes later, burning white hot. Except this time, there is no pain; the pain is gone, that is what he felt before losing consciousness, leaving nothing besides a bone deep ache, similar to a bruise, and a pair of still growing _wings...wings!_

 “Ah, you’re awake, good.”

 The deep baritone, slightly breathless, breaks John out of his trance.

John quickly turns around, fully intent on expressing many expletives ranging from ‘bastard’ to ‘fucking hell’ until he actually sees Sherlock...John isn’t the only one with wings.

If John were to say that this situation is surreal, it would be an understatement.

Here he is, half naked, wings forming on his back, his heart and body aching for two entirely different reasons, and he is standing across from his previously “dead”best-friend...whom is also sporting his own pair of growing, and rather...stunning wings (John begrudgingly acknowledges, the wings suit Sherlock’s stature), they are steel grey borderline silver in colour with a hint of brown along the edges. The man in question is wearing nothing but a towel and is dripping wet, not with rain water, but with the hot water caused by use of the aging shower. Remnants of steam rise off Sherlock’s broad shoulders.

John stops himself from staring too long, and blames the hot fire for the flush forming along his neck and face. _Snap out of it for goodness sakes, this is ridiculous! I still don_ _’_ _t know a bloody thing about what the hell is going on and now this..._ John is tempted to ask himself the question ‘how is this my life?’but truthfully, he stopped asking himself that shortly after moving in with Sherlock all those years ago. Because no matter how angry and hurt he is, how confused and discombobulated he feels, despite the grief laden tedium of the last two years...a part of John has resigned himself to the reality of learning to expect the unexpected, and it is not always pleasant. He may not be ready to fully admit it to himself, let alone say it out loud, but seeing Sherlock alive...is the best goddamn surprise he’s ever had. It doesn’t help that as soon as Sherlock entered the room he realized that the echoing heartbeat he feels and hears isn’t his own, but Sherlock’s. If he needed further proof that he isn’t crazy and that Sherlock is actually alive, that is it.

Regardless, he will toss the wanker out by his ear if he doesn’t find out what happened two years ago, and what is happening _now._

The two men are in the midst of an odd standoff, John staring at Sherlock with a tight expression; internally debating which of the thousand questions to ask first, his wings are already reacting to his internal emotions and contracting with tension. Sherlock watches John with a carefully constructed mask, his eyes are darting all over John with a piercing intensity and he can’t completely block the wariness he is obviously trying to hide.

The many kinds of tension enveloping the room would need more than a knife to cut through. The two of them fully aware of what the presence of wings between them means, and the knowledge of what feels like a deep betrayal on Sherlock’s part from John’s perspective and a necessary one from Sherlock’s.

In short, it’s a bloody mess.

Just then, there is a deep sigh from the Detective; the heavy sound breaking the silence of the room.

“John, I know this-” Sherlock gestures to his wings and then to the rest of himself. “-must be a shock to you, but there is something we must do and I need you to do it.”

Glossing completely over the fact that Sherlock Holmes just admitted to _needing_ John, the latter man blinks. “ _We?_ Just like that?” His tone is incredulous. “There is no ‘we’, there hasn’t been a ‘we’ since you buggered off and made me believe you were dead!” His voice is raised significantly by the end of his outburst, his wings spread widely on instinct.

Sherlock seems entranced by them for a moment, his eyes gazing at them with curiosity. The look is gone quickly though and Sherlock moves to stand closer. John resists the urge to move backwards and keeps his eyes firmly on Sherlock’s face and not on his...mostly naked body.

The warm flush John feels is only caused by his anger and the fire of course.

Sherlock’s eyes are intense, his brow drawn in increasing focus, his wings also spreading. Out of the corner of his eye John notices that the tips of their wings are very close to touching and he feels an involuntary shiver, for a brief moment he swears he sees Sherlock experience the same.

Sherlock narrows his eyes at John. “I didn’t just ‘ _bugger off_ _’_ , faking my death was a necessary evil and I do not, will not, regret making that choice.”

John laughs coldly.

“Unbelievable, you’re...wow.” John closes his eyes and clenches his fists; aware enough to realize strangling the man probably won’t help. “You don’t have any idea do you?” John doesn’t really expect Sherlock to answer, and he’s right when the man merely looks at him with something akin to perplexity. “You really think it is...ok, don’t you? To run off gallivanting who knows where for two years and then showing up as if no time has passed and telling me you need my help?” John scoffs. “Unbelievable.”

 _I_ _thought I was at least worth more to you than that. Stupid, I really am an idiot._ John doesn’t voice those thoughts aloud and instead rests a tired palm across his face, really trying hard to ignore the pounding in his heart and the elephant in the room; the fact that Sherlock and John have presented as deep soul mates despite...everything. John still doesn’t see how that is possible and he can’t handle figuring that out right now and what it could mean.

“I. Was. Not. _Off gallivanting._ ”

John is momentarily taken aback by the ferocity in Sherlock’s voice and looks up at him; shocked to see his wings, though still growing, spread incredibly wide, and his starburst eyes narrowed even further and... _angry. Why is_ ** _he_** _angry?_

“So what were you doing? Playing hide and seek? Going on an extended vacation?” Contrary to what some might think, John does have a logical brain, and that brain is incessantly whispering that whatever Sherlock did he had to have a logical reason for it but right now...John doesn’t want to hear it, his emotional reasoning has taken over. “What was so bloody necessary that it required you putting me through fucking hell?! You have one chance to tell me everything, right now and no ‘there is no time I need help’ bollocks, no excuses, no vague ‘I’m Sherlock Holmes, all people in the world are idiots so I shouldn’t have to explain myself’ responses, I don’t care how you faked it, I need to know why and I need to know _now._ ”

There, he said it.

John is breathing heavily, half anxious and half angry at how Sherlock will respond (though he will never admit to the former).

Sherlock hasn’t moved, his eyes centering on John’s, his mouth slightly parted and his eyebrows creased in thought. A small measure of time passes with no sound but the crackling of the fire, the twitching anxiety of their new wings and though neither is aware of it, they also hear the echoing sound of the others heart beats.

John is just beginning to wonder if they’ll eventually turn into statues just standing here when Sherlock appears to give in and finally speaks.

“Moriarty’s web was a dark pervasive thing, and I knew that even if or when he died that his empire would struggle to live on and most likely succeed if I didn’t intervene...and as much as I loathe to admit it, my brother as well-”

“Mycroft? _Mycroft_ knew?” John throws his hands in the air. _Of course he did. Bastard._

Sherlock gives him a trademark look, begrudgingly –and with clenched teeth –John sighs and motions for him to continue.

“Yes. I despise giving him any credit, but I wouldn’t have been able to accomplish this without his or Molly Hooper’s assistance-”

“ _What?!_ ” John screams. Molly... _she_ knew? “You told _Molly Hooper?_ ” He doesn’t say ‘you trusted Molly Hooper but not me’; the unspoken words are loud enough on their own. John is somewhat surprised to find that he isn’t even all that angry with Molly, she would’ve done anything Sherlock asked her too...having feelings for Sherlock Holmes never ended well.

Sherlock looks almost pained for a moment.

“I needed her assistance with my-”

“Shut it...just-”John wants to punch him, but... _sigh_. “continue.”

Sherlock doesn’t hesitate.

“I predicted long before it happened that Moriarty would organize my downfall. My brother and I concocted a plan so that when it did happen it would happen on our terms, giving us the advantage, and an opportunity to rid the world of Moriarty once and for all. Mycroft and I knew when Moriarty practically allowed himself to be captured that it was time, so he deliberately let slip details of my personal life-” _That...he did that on purpose? John was so angry with Mycroft for it and it was...all planned? God..._ “-to him and we waited. When the time came, we prepared for every eventuality. I deduced that Moriarty would likely lure me to the rooftop of St Bart’s, a rather dramatic way to complete his story. I...I knew you wouldn’t likely leave my side, so I gave you a plausible reason to leave me at the hospital-”John feels as though his stomach has been wrenched from his body, that conversation has haunted him all these years, he called his best friend a machine only to see him jump to his death barely an hour later and he couldn’t...couldn’t... “-and when I-”

“I don’t give a rat’s arse how you managed to pull all that off, just...tell me _why._ ” _Tell me why you didn_ _’_ _t trust me; tell me why I_ _“_ _had to_ _”_ _believe you were dead._

John’s frustration is growing, partially with the effort of trying to keep his strong waves of emotion at bay. Sherlock blinks a few times, hesitates, and then sighs deeply. He straightens up into a perfectly straight posture; steeling himself.

“Moriarty was never going to stop. He had to be destroyed. I faked my death so that members of his web wouldn’t come after me and I could have the chance to dismantle it inch by inch, country by country, severing off its heads so that the hydra couldn’t grow back. This has taken me approximately two years.” John knows that isn’t the end of it. He continues to eye Sherlock, all the information he has already told him slowly sinking in. John waits for him to continue and give him the reason he’s really looking for. “I...”

Now Sherlock turns away towards the fire, a look of deep concentration on his face. John looks at him with a steady gaze but says nothing.

“I couldn’t tell you because it was of the utmost importance that as few people knew as possible, Mycroft and Molly were necessary, _you_ knowing wasn’t. I couldn’t allow anything to risk this succeeding and I wasn’t convinced you would be able to pretend I was dead while knowing I was alive. Taking you with me wasn’t an option. Your sudden disappearance could’ve jeopardized the whole operation immediately. You had to believe my death was real. It was the only way.” Sherlock’s breath hitches as if to speak further, but he closes his mouth and looks John in the eye.

John is speechless. He wasn’t expecting... _that._ How can that have possibly been the “only”way? John refuses to believe that. Moriarty was evil; he understands the necessity of getting rid of him absolutely. John can even understand why Sherlock faking his death would make the most sense, and even though he would’ve gone with Sherlock (in a heartbeat) he can also understand Sherlock’s reasoning for him not being able to go with him. What he doesn’t understand is why it was “necessary” for John to truly believe he was dead. Did Sherlock just not trust him enough? After everything they’d been through? John knows he’s proven himself over and over again, and he was a bloody soldier! It’s not as though he hasn’t been a part of secret operations before, during his time in the army.

It seems Sherlock had no qualms about using John to make sure he would succeed; a pawn, helpful, but ultimately not worth much. It is cold logic, heartless, efficient, and John shouldn’t have expected anything different.

Sherlock’s eyes seem to widen in shock.

“John, you’re an idiot. Whatever you’re thinking, stop it.”

_Bloody mind-reader._

John is just tired now; drained and worn out of from...all of this, the pain both inside and out, the grief that in the end was a waste of his time, the deception, feeling more useless than he has in a long time, the self-pity, the goddamn wings (and isn’t that another can of worms that will require his attention) and Sherlock Holmes...fuck it. John Watson just wants to sleep for the next million years and recharge.

John doesn’t say anything, just stares at Sherlock for a few more seconds, his face expressionless. Sherlock actually looks concerned, but John doesn’t really notice it. Instead, he turns around, completely bypassing Sherlock and walks towards the stairs; noticing as he moves that his wings have sagged dejectedly and that the heartbeat he still hears is roaring faster.

Before he even reaches the archway leading out towards the stairs, he hears that cavernous voice call out from behind him.

“John!”

He stops, and turns around, fighting to have just enough energy to keep his stoic composure.

Sherlock is moving much closer to him, keeping one hand clutching his towel closer to his waist and the other twitching as if fighting an urge to reach out. John acknowledges that Sherlock paints an intriguing sight; mostly naked, silhouetted by the glowing firelight, wings twitching and reflecting that light, dark curls just beginning to dry and resting against those too high cheekbones that have always suited his ex-flatmate (although, John notes inwardly, this is technically his house isn’t it?).

John feels like a fool.

Can he ever forgive Sherlock Holmes? There is no way he can answer that question just yet, he has barely begun recovering from the barrage of Sherlock and the information he trailed in through his wake. John does know that he needs some space, desperate, and so he doesn’t say anything as he waits for Sherlock to explain why he called out to him.

 “I do still need your help.”

 John blinks slowly. _Is it too late to punch him?_

He doesn’t answer, instead he turns back around and resumes his course for the loo and a much needed refresher shower. He is mounting the stairs when he hears Sherlock again.

“John!” Sherlock shouts, significantly more urgent and just a tad worried. “I would not ask if it wasn’t important.”

Against his better judgement, he pauses, but doesn’t turn around.

“I’m going to take a shower Sherlock, tell me about whatever it is after I’m done.” He struggles to keep his tone emotionless and professional, but that’s always been Sherlock’s area of expertise. He doesn’t automatically say he’ll help or that he’ll think about it, those are two things he cannot promise, and John is feeling more than a little bit ticked because he just knows that is what Sherlock expects him to do.

John badly needs a moment to himself to reflect on everything that’s happened in the past few hours. His brain is turning to mud and his body is becoming increasingly heavy, whether that’s from all the emotion of what’s happened or the stress his body is going under with the forming of his new limbs (god, if he wasn’t so drained he’d laugh at the cruelly bizarre turn of events)...he doesn’t know, probably both.

“Alright.”

John swears he can feel Sherlock nodding, obviously showing some common sense for once in his life. Honestly, he expected him to push, but he ends up surprising John instead. John shakes his head of it and resumes his trek up the stairs and enters the loo adjoining his bedroom.

         

He doesn’t notice Sherlock standing unmoving at the bottom of the rickety staircase, lost in thought, wandering his mind palace with nanosecond speed searching for answers to so many questions he’s being bombarded with, analyzing the new and mostly unexpected developments. Knowing he made a mistake sometime somewhere, knowing he missed something and cursing himself for it, because it has only put John Watson in danger yet again...even so, Sherlock cannot fight another enemy without John again, he won’t, and he curses himself for that weakness too.

Sherlock feels himself torn between wanting to caress his wings, so perfectly glistening with the colour of John’s eyes, and wanting to rip them from his back and let the blood pour. He doesn’t want them, has never wanted them, and yet... _sigh_ , so many questions, so many things to do, so little time...and there is one question echoing in his head, along with the oddly reassuring beat of John Watson’s heart, more than any other _...Has everything been for naught? Have I saved John Watson only to lose him anyway?_


	4. I'm on your magical mystery ride

Chapter 3

 

Turns out, a shower can solve everything while resolving absolutely nothing.

Deciding to treat the situation with Sherlock like a war zone is easy, be prepared, expect the unexpected and don’t get cocky; the irony that this is what he often had to do, albeit for different reasons, back when Sherlock and he were at the height of their crime solving days, isn’t lost on John. Except this time, the war zone isn’t a life style nor is it London; his own feelings are the setting for this particular war. The hot and battering streams of the shower highlighted more clearly one obvious fact; John Watson feels irrevocably tied to the maddening Detective (and not just because of the additional newly formed bond). He knows he has the determination and will to never see him again (although with the wings...no matter how much he may want to, he might not be able to), and the anger and hurt still fueling inside him are tempted to take that path, but the truth is...he doesn’t want to. He has spent two years grieving a man who has saved his life on more than one occasion and in so many ways. Forgiveness may not come easily or at all (he certainly isn’t ready to give it yet) but he will at least see through whatever happens as a result of Sherlock’s return. No predicting the future just yet, he will remain guarded around Sherlock until he feels, sees it is no longer necessary.

For now, John is still in the fresh ‘not sure if I want to hug him or punch him’ phase and he has to deal with another more immediately important conundrum...all his shirts and jumpers are now useless due to the infernal things protruding from his back.

John is currently drying himself off with a fluffy white towel, avoiding his wings and shaking them instead to get all the water droplets off. It is surprising to him how, on the one hand, comfortable he feels with them already, a whole new set of instincts has set in and them being there feels as natural to his body as his arms and legs even after so short a time.

On the other hand, getting around the emotional and mental significance of what they represent is a whole other facet labelled under ‘Sherlock: Warzone’. The two of them will have to deal with the details of that eventually, but they have a bit of time before that becomes necessary.

_Fuck._ _Goddamn bloody hell._ _How has this happened all in one day?_ The routine monotony of what his life had become is washed away once more by the tide named Sherlock Holmes.

For a moment John feels resentment for the way Sherlock can so easily swoop in and drastically alter his life.

John sighs. _Enough thinking._ John will trust his instincts on this one; his mind is too bloody chaotic right now to trust.

Wrapping the towel casually around his waist, he enters his bedroom. It is only a few steps in when he notices the folded clothes on his bed...which wasn’t there when he first came in, Sherlock must’ve put it there. Odd.

There is a small piece of paper on top of it with very familiar handwriting scrawled along its surface. Feeling curious, John picks it up.

         

  _I altered one of your shirts while you were unconscious._

 

_What?_ John quickly tosses the note away and unfolds the shirt...seeing two, very even incisions (one of Sherlock’s soul mate abilities, never a need for a scalpel or knife –which certainly came in handy during cases and when he would do experiments) made in the back of one of John’s favourite sleeping shirts; the long holes perfect in width and length.

John frowns. _How...weirdly thoughtful. And presumptuous, that_ _’_ _s normal at least. The sod doing whatever he pleases with my clothes just like he used to_...John smiles briefly at the thought, his expression sours when that ‘ _used to_ ’ causes his heart to clench.

Perhaps too roughly, John pulls the shirt over his head –wincing when the material catches on his still sensitive wings –and pushes them through the freshly made holes. It is surprisingly comfortable.

In very little time John has finished dressing and is making his way downstairs; back ramrod straight, preparing to enter the warzone.     

The fire is still going strong when John takes a deep breath and enters the living room.

Sherlock is sitting in John’s usual chair much like he used to in Baker Street. His chin resting upon his closed left fist, right hand twitching anxiously against the opposite rest, his body encased in really old sweat clothes John has never seen before, wings jutting from his back and resting delicately over the sides of the chair, his hair is almost completely dry now; the curls springing with a youthfulness that counteracts the hard lines of sorrow John has only just noticed...lines John recognized on himself when he returned from war. The thought brings him up short and he wonders ‘what _happened to him?_ ’, another thing to ponder.

John is sure Sherlock knows he’s there, yet the man hasn’t moved. The great Detective’s eyes appear narrowed in thought; focusing intently on the fire, if John looks really hard he can almost see the firelight reflecting in the shimmering orbs...he doesn’t think he’s ever noticed the colour of Sherlock’s eyes quite as strongly as before, John wonders if that is something to do with their new bond.

Suddenly, and he isn’t precisely sure why, John feels uneasy.

A shiver causes his wings to ruffle and Sherlock suddenly whips his head around to face him.

His hand freezes mid-twitch and he watches John for a few moments before turning back towards the fire.

John had half-expected Sherlock would resume his insistence on needing John’s help or whatever, but there is a sad quietness to Sherlock that is surprising John out of any expectations he might have had on what he’d see when entering the living room.

Frowning slightly, John slowly walks forward to the chair opposite Sherlock. The latter man doesn’t move. John vaguely notices their drying clothes have been moved to the iron hook beside the fireplace. He sits down in the chair and straightens his posture. John looks at the detective expectantly; hands resting on his jeans and wings tucked against his sides.

He waits out the silence for a few more minutes, his anxiety ratcheting up each moment that goes by when Sherlock doesn’t speak and instead continues to watch the fire...a vulnerability growing in his eyes that has John feeling unsettled. His confusion grows at the sight.

 “I haven’t been in this place for over twenty years.” Sherlock finally breaks the silence, gaze unrelenting.

 John frowns.        

 “Mycroft told me you left it to me in your will.” John comments.

 Sherlock scoffs and rolls his eyes. _Well, that_ _’_ _s familiar._

 “Of course he did.” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Interfering bastard.” He adds in a deeply angry whisper.

 “You mean you didn’t?” _Why would Mycroft lie?_

“Really John, the fact that I’m alive should’ve been your first clue. I see your observational skills haven’t improved in my absence.” Sherlock speaks with a sudden coldness that contradicts strongly with the vulnerability John is sure he saw before.

Maybe he imagined it.

Johns feels a rush of anger and his hands clench knuckle white on his knees, teeth grinding with holding back the urge to yell again. He’s about to speak when Sherlock continues. “This house isn’t mine.” Sherlock has closed his eyes and his tone has gone quiet and...soft.

Sherlock induced whiplash is a condition he is familiar with.

_Wait a sec...the house isn_ _’_ _t even his?_

Ignoring his anger at the insult from before, John indulges his curiosity.

“Why would-”

“It is not of import.” Sherlock interrupts him quickly, waving his hand in dismissal, watching the fire still. “I...”

Nothing. Keeping his eyes closed, Sherlock assumes a statuesque pose and breathes deeply.

John leans forward in his seat, the enigma of seeing Sherlock Holmes this...exposed is quite peculiar and out of character with the man he knows –knew. His newborn wings itch to stretch forward and brush with Sherlock’s own – _wait what?_

Sherlock abruptly opens his eyes and looks towards John, a brief flash of panic crosses those eyes.

“It appears that our present...condition, is making me more...” Sherlock frowns, as though searching for the right word.

More... “Comfortable?” John posits.

Sherlock’s mouth parts in surprise, that is brief however when the man’s eyes pinpoint narrow and frostily on John. His entire demeanor changes like the flick of a switch; whatever vulnerability John saw cracking through the impenetrable wall Sherlock has surrounding him is shuttered closed behind it.

“Don’t be an idiot.” Sherlock is vehement, throwing himself off the chair and disappearing somewhere behind John.

Instead of feeling angry, John clenches his hand briefly and sighs; more resigned than anything else. Comfortable is an innocuous word, but obviously it touched a nerve somewhere.

He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingertips, trying to ease the headache he feels building.

John gasps when he feels something smack into his chest.

“What the hell-” John cries out in shock, his eyes open abruptly.

Something has just been thrown at him...the newspaper from earlier. John looks up, Sherlock is standing a few feet in front him; watching closely. “Why did you throw this at me?” John grasps the paper and waves it roughly in Sherlock’s direction; more than a little ticked, and feeling a bit like a toad thrown in cold water with the change in topic.

Sherlock shrugs. “It is obvious you haven’t read the paper yet. Read the article on the bottom right.”

John stares for a minute. _To throw the paper into the fire or not? That is the question._ John clenches his jaw and looks down at the paper; mumbling ‘ _pratt_ ’ under his breath. He thinks he hears Sherlock snigger at that, but it’s probably just his ears playing tricks on him.

His attention is quickly diverted when he realizes he has seen the article, albeit only briefly.

The headline reads: **Body Found Outside Briars Pub**

_Briars Pub?_ John raises an eyebrow in morbid surprise. He will often go there after work, sometimes with a co-worker.

 

_The body of an unknown male was found directly outside Briars Pub yesterday morning. Jonathan Briar, local business man and owner of the aforementioned pub, was the man who found the body when he arrived at work. His statement has been taken by Local Police but no details have been released to the press. Our reporters were prevented access to the crime scene and subsequently denied any interviews. As such, very little information is known at present other than no one appears to recognize the victim and it is suspected that he was murdered._

 

The article, quite short, ends there. There is a picture, though somewhat distorted as though taken from a great distance. John sighs sadly and looks up at Sherlock; the man still standing in front of him is looking away and out the window, eyes aglow with the warmth of the fire.

“This...is a case?” John asks. Sherlock nods. “This is what you need my help with?” Another nod.

Right.

“So...you come back from the grave, find a case and now you want me to help...just like that?” John tries not to sound indignant, but Sherlock is being awfully presuming here (among other things) and on top of everything else it’s rubbing John the wrong way.

“Of course not.” Sherlock says in his classic ‘you’re an idiot’ tone. “Not entirely. There were...extenuating circumstances-”A rush of barely controlled anger enters Sherlock’s voice as he speaks “-that forced me here. This case is related.” He finishes.

“Related? How?”

Sherlock gives John a pointed look, clearly not intending to answer. John, very much tired of anymore secrets is about to blow up at Sherlock when a shrill ringing sound emanates from Sherlock’s pocket.

Distracted for the moment, John watches at Sherlock retrieves his mobile and taps at it for a minute or two; his face giving nothing away. Almost as quickly, he pockets the mobile and once more gazes at John.

Sherlock absentmindedly strokes a feather above his shoulder; he appears to be debating something.

“I knew him.” His voice is impassive.

 John’s eyes widen.

“The...the victim.” John pauses, looking more intently at Sherlock. “You knew the victim.”

 Sherlock merely nods. It must be somehow related to Sherlock’s exile if the case is related to his return. John leans back, absorbing this new information...this, changes things.

“We are expected at the mortuary within the hour.”

Sherlock strides past John and towards the front window. John turns around in his chair and watches as Sherlock pulls the cream coloured curtains back and peers outside.

“Whoa, whoa. First of all, I haven’t agreed to help-” Sherlock scoffs in disbelief. John narrows his eyes, yes of course he’ll help given the circumstances...but whether it’s out of pride or hurt or, right now John doesn’t want to just give in the second Sherlock asks for help with something like this.

John can’t deny he’s missed this a lot, but John isn’t stupid and he is aware that there is obviously a lot that Sherlock isn’t telling him and John hates being kept in the dark; especially now.   “-and second of all, my car is in the shop and it is a very long walk from here to town, not to mention it looks like it’ll rain again.”

“I’m fairly certain you know me better than that, I have our transportation taken care of.” Sherlock says simply.

“Of course you do.” John mumbles. He pushes himself up and off the chair, groaning as he does so. John has admittedly let his exercise routine slide over the past two years, but he still has his gun and keeps his skills sharp by doing target practice every now and then.

If Sherlock hears him moving around he doesn’t say anything and just continues to stare out the window.

“Bring your gun.” Sherlock speaks without turning around. “Could be dangerous.” He adds almost as an afterthought, with the clear intent of striking a chord with John. He cannot be unaware of the significance of those words.

John feels an ache when he says that, remembering that night all those years. Oh how things have changed.

Sherlock used to say those words with enthusiasm and playfulness, a joy many people found freakish and wrong. John never thought so. Now he sounds completely serious and...dare John say it, worried.

John doesn’t know what to think anymore. This day is not going like he thought it would.

He goes upstairs and retrieves his gun, makes sure the safety is on for the time being and places it in the band of his jeans. Hoping that they won’t have a lot of walking outside to do, given the chilly the weather and the fact that John currently doesn’t have a useable jacket, John walks back downstairs to find Sherlock making changes to the awkward rips in his Belstaff coat.

Seeing that reminds John of the other part of their situation. There are so many questions he wants to ask, but he is wary, and until necessary he’s going to keep his mouth shut.

John walks into the room just as Sherlock bends forward slightly to check the window once more. At this angle, the bottom of Sherlock’s shirt rides up slightly; exposing pale milky white skin.

That isn’t what has caught John’s attention though.

The tip of what must be a long vibrant scar on his back is illuminated by a stream of fading sunlight piercing through the gloom outside.

That wasn’t there _before._

The doctor in John takes over and he walks forward. Sherlock, looking away, doesn’t move and without thinking John steps right up to him and lifts up the corner of his shirt.

         

Sherlock considers moving away but it is too late. He immediately stiffens, still staring out the window but focused entirely on what John is doing. He knows what John must be seeing, _why don_ _’_ _t I move? Why? You don_ _’_ _t want him to see. He_ _’_ _ll ask questions. It doesn_ _’_ _t matter._ His wings twitch frantically at John’s proximity. Sherlock knows what they must do eventually. He finds himself feeling anticipation at the prospect, his body betraying him. However Sherlock is also angry. He never wanted this, and he knows John certainly won’t want to get that close no matter how close he is now. John noticed part of a scar, being a doctor he is duty bound to inspect it.

         

John gasps in horror at what he sees before him. He’s lifted the shirt as far as he can without touching the wings, but even with only a fraction of the skin of Sherlock’s back exposed John can see long jagged scars marring that previously toned pure skin.

They _definitely_ weren’t there before.

“Sherlock...” John whispers. Many of them are older, but there a few that couldn’t be more than a few months old, and some even show signs of having lost their stitching only recently; those ones John notes with nausea building in his stomach look like whip marks. _How...why..._

“John please, enough. It doesn’t matter.” Sherlock roughly yanks his shirt down.

_Now_ John is angry. And this time, it is for a different reason.

“Doesn’t matter? _Doesn_ _’_ _t matter?!_ Sherlock-”

John is interrupted by the sound of an engine thundering up the drive way.

Both he and Sherlock whip their heads toward the noise. Sherlock picks up his coat and carefully dons it over his wings; the beautifully metallic appendages sliding out of the holes with ease. He then completely bypasses a still angry John and exits the door.

_Expected to follow then._ John growls in frustration and pauses for a moment, unsure what to wear for a jacket. That is when he sees his green coat laying on the window eat...with, of course, two neatly done holes made fit for wings. John shakes his head and puts on his coat, a bit less gracefully than Sherlock, pleased to find that the edges of  the fabric are quite snug around the wings.

“You bastard!”

_Greg?_ John freezes. He is surprised, and yet strangely not, to realize that he must be the transportation Sherlock was speaking of, must’ve contacted him while John was passed out.

John quickly puts out the fire, grabs his keys and mobile, and then proceeds out the door without looking at where Sherlock must’ve gone. He locks the door before finally turning around.

John is startled for a moment when he notices Sherlock being embraced tightly by an angry and relieved looking DI. Sherlock’s hands are awkwardly patting at Greg’s arms, clearly uncomfortable. But John can see even from here that Greg’s soul mark is glowing stronger, which means Sherlock’s must be too.

Greg pulls away as John walks towards them. The former gives Sherlock a glare that even the most psychopathic of criminals would be moved by, Sherlock only appears to be immune...but John can see traces of contrition in his eyes.

“I get a text apparently from you, basically think it is some sick prank, only to get a confirmation by phone from your bloody brother that you are indeed alive and not dead like you made us all think, and demand I drive out to John’s cottage –quite frankly I’m surprised he didn’t kill you himself –because it is an emergency. Fucking hell Sherlock! Do you honestly believe any of that is ok?” Greg echoes John’s earlier words, he is angry, very angry, but unlike John he isn’t nearly as loud about it.

“I never said it was ok.”

_Smart arse._ John, still standing a few feet away watches the duo. In all the chaos with Sherlock, John had nearly forgotten that there were other people Sherlock needed to let know he was alive. John is surprised he didn’t go to his soul mates first.

Greg says nothing for a moment, and then growls in frustration; seeming to give up on that particular line of questioning.

Greg isn’t one to hold onto anger like John is, already he can see the man deflating, being left behind with a tired resignation.

He glances at John. The two of them share a look. His initial anger may be fading, but Greg is clearly still hurt, just like John. Sherlock is watching them silently.

“Fine. Fine, be a smart arse. Now, care to explain to me how you’re here now and why you two suddenly have wings?”            


	5. You're crazy and I'm out of my mind

Chapter 4

 

The car ride into the small village isn’t long. It is however incredibly awkward and uncomfortable. Sherlock gave a bare bones explanation to Greg, leaving out the exact details of his and John’s reunion, telling him only why he faked his death and why he is here now. Hearing it again...John has a feeling that Sherlock isn’t being entirely honest, which wouldn’t be a first really. John resolves to confront him later about whatever it is he’s hiding.

The feeling that he is being kept in the dark about something makes him feel sick. John wants to get angry again, but since his initial blow out has passed, whenever he looks at the man he’s been missing these past years something stops him from blowing up again. Whether that’s the sight of the wings (and the mixed emotions that gives him) or something else, he isn’t entirely sure.

Who knows when that will change though?

They only got in the car after Greg heard it all, or as Sherlock put it only what was necessary to hear; filling him in on the murdered man. After that, with Sherlock in the back and John and Greg in the front, the drive was silent. The latter two shared multiple silent glances, seeming to speak without words.

_How are you?_

_Fine._

_You_ _’_ _re lying.What_ _’_ _s going on with you two?_

_No bloody clue._

_Think you can forgive him?_

_Can you?_

_Eventually, maybe._

_He_ _’_ _s never going to say sorry. I doubt he_ _’_ _d even care enough to._

_Do you really believe that?_

_I don_ _’_ _t know what to believe anymore._

Sherlock doesn’t say a word, elbow resting against the window; gazing out the glass with fire in his stare the entire drive.

The ride is pretty much like that until they arrive at the local police station, mortuary and resident coroner.

They pile out of the car, Sherlock exiting far more quickly than the other two men, and stride towards the entrance.

There are only a few cars in the lot, the one closest to the station is black with tinted windows, John assumes it belongs to the man standing directly adjacent to the entrance; wearing a long dark grey coat, standing abnormally straight, and wearing an obvious ear piece.

“Very conspicuous.” John notes dryly.

Greg, who is walking along side him, snorts.         

“Any idea what’s going on here?” Greg asks.

“No more than you mate.” He really doesn’t. The presence of what looks like an intelligence agent of some sort is a surprise, suggesting this is more serious than Sherlock is letting on...and that just makes John feel all the more frustrated.

In front of them, instead of heading towards the door, Sherlock changes direction and walks with an angry pace over to the man standing beside it.

They are too far away to hear anything concrete, but Sherlock is clearly giving this man a beat down.

_Why_ _–_ _Ah, of course._

“Mycroft.” _Must be one of his agents._

John has never particularly warmed to him, and his involvement two years ago really put him on John’s blacklist. Even though he knows now that he apparently didn’t actually sell out his brother, he still knew that Sherlock was alive for whatever reason and for some inexplicable reason lied about Sherlock leaving John the cottage...those are just a few examples on why John doesn’t trust him. If this case is really somehow linked to Sherlock’s return, even though he has yet to see any indication of that, John isn’t surprised the bastard is already involved.

“Of course.” Greg grunts. “Always an infuriating tosser.” He adds.

John laughs and smiles for a moment.

“Must be genetic.”

Greg chuckles in response while the both of them wait for Sherlock to be finished. 

For a moment, John feels light. This, this is familiar...joking along the sidelines with Greg while watching Sherlock perform his speedy deductions at crime scenes. The current scene is so similar that John finds himself smiling once more.

All he has to do though is notice the detective’s wings and his smile to falls when he remembers that it is not similar at all.

John strides forward, leaving the moment behind (he hears Greg follow), and walks up to Sherlock.

“-fault, this isn’t necessary nor do I need my _dear_ brother’s help any longer, I never want to see _him_ or any of his useless minions ever _again!_ ”

John had planned on intervening, but the sheer _fury_ in Sherlock’s voice brings him up short. He’s never truly _liked_ his brother per se, but in general when they interacted it gave more the sense of an unresolved sibling rivalry issue coming forth rather than genuine dislike or hatred. Now though, if someone told him that Sherlock Holmes hates his brother he would believe him.

He is fuming, wings (though still small and growing) spread angrily out of his body, eyes a threatening gleam, hands clenched tightly to his sides.

Sherlock Holmes angry has always been an intimidating sight for most people.

The other man is watching Sherlock with a surprisingly calm demeanor, but even he seems somewhat wary of possibly getting his nose broken.

“What’s going on?” John finally interrupts, both to prevent said nose breaking possibility and to move along with what Sherlock wanted to do in the first place.

Sherlock doesn’t alter his threatening stance. The other man however glances at John briefly before looking back at Sherlock.

“As I said before, I have been instructed to remain here unless otherwise ordered by my superior, and that isn’t you Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock growls. John instinctively reaches out and grabs Sherlock’s fist, not really sure why he does it. He could say it’s to prevent Sherlock from punching the man, even though at his most angry straight up punching has never been Sherlock’s style. That is more John’s forte.

The detective breaks his death glare from the agent for the first time since arriving and turns to face John; eyes widened in shock. Neither of them moves their hands away.       

“I don’t know what’s going on here, but he did come here for a reason yeah? I doubt verbally berating this man is going to help.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitches briefly, he looks to the agent and back to John, debating with himself. With an angry huff he practically tears his fist away from John and grabs him by the elbow, pushing the door open with his other hand and nearly dragging the staggering doctor into the building.

John is shocked enough not to do anything until they’re already inside.

“Whoa –whoa! Hey! What the hell are you doing?”

“Getting you away from him.” Sherlock tightens his grip.

“Sherlock stop!” John yells and yanks his arm away. “I am perfectly capable of walking through a bloody door on my own!”

Sherlock’s hand flails a bit uselessly with the suddenness of John’s departure. John narrows his eyes at Sherlock as the man stalks forward into his personal space.

“I do not trust _him_ or anything even connected with my godforsaken brother. I  _will_ protect you.” Sherlock speaks in an even, dangerous tone.

_What the hell?_ John is suddenly livid. Protect him? _Protect_ him?! _If he hadn_ _’_ _t..._

“He is just a man doing his job for fuck’s sake! I do not need or want your protection Sherlock Holmes, as far as I’m concerned I’m only here now because a murderer needs to be caught, having to deal with _you_ again is an unfortunate side effect.” It is malicious, and John knows as soon as the words leave his mouth that only a fraction of his anger is justified, the rest is fueled by the hurt he doubts will ever really go away.

If John weren’t staring at him, he doubts he would’ve seen Sherlock visibly flinch at his words. He does though, and instantly feels a rush of guilt. It doesn’t help that he swears he hears, _feels_ , Sherlock’s heartbeat speed up with anxiety. A part of him is sickly glad to see his words even made an impact...which doesn’t help the guilt. And why should he feel guilty after what Sherlock did?

Sherlock’s wings recoil nearly out of John’s line of sight, but he doesn’t move; though his face has donned an expressionless mask.

John is still breathing heavily, he expects Sherlock to fight him on that and argue with him further, and he’s prepared for it-

But then, Sherlock releases a long breath and straightens up.

“No matter our situation, if you do not wish to see me again after all this has been dealt with, I will understand.” Sherlock isn’t looking at John as he says this, eyes fixated at a point beyond him. His tone of voice is flat and unreadable.

John is surprised at the flare of panic he feels and he senses his wings reflect that. _No, no you don_ _’_ _t want to lose him again. But what he did is unforgivable! How could he do it? If he cared at all how...all that doesn_ _’_ _t mean you want to lose him again._

_Fuck_. He doesn’t even know what to say.

“Sherlock...” John hesitates.

The man in question doesn’t appear to be listening, as soon as John starts to speak he brushes past him –careful to avoid his wings –and disappears somewhere to his right.

John is rooted to the spot, going over and over the past exchange in his head, trying to make sense of it. It is then that he remembers that he is inside the police station, and that there _are_ people around, in the lobby and behind the desk. All of them frozen and watching him curiously (three of the people have wings John notices). That’s not even counting Greg who is waiting at the door Sherlock must’ve disappeared through, looking at John with sympathy.

For some reason, John fancies he hears Mrs. Hudson’s voice right then _‘_ _having a bit of a domestic?_ _’_

_Damn it._

Ignoring the stares, John turns around with faintly angry footsteps and heads in Greg’s direction; the latter is holding the door open for him.

“Are you ok?” Greg asks softly as John reaches the door.

“I’m positively chipper.” John puts on a smile.

Greg knows he’s lying, of course he does. He doesn’t say anything though and lets the door swing shut as John walks down the long hallway connecting the main lobby of the police station with the mortuary. In the year he’s lived here, he’s never had reason to be here before, but it is small and not that hard to navigate.

 

Greg Lestrade follows, feeling worried for his soul mates and friends. No matter what the bastard did (and boy is he mad about it, though he understands the reasons he gave), he hopes Sherlock and John can reconcile. He’s known both men together and apart, the two of them are vastly better in so many ways when they’re a team. It would be a tragedy if John takes Sherlock up on his offer.

With a heavy sigh, he speeds up his steps to catch up with the Detective and his ex-blogger.

 

***  

 

The coroner, Dr. Marcus James, isn’t there when they enter the room. His assistant, a young woman named Julia Freemont, is the one that leads them to the table housing the body in an adjoining room. Clearly they were expected. Whether that is further evidence of Mycroft’s interference or Sherlock himself called is up for debate.

There is only one occupied table. The four of them walk up to it and the assistant pulls back the white cloth, exposing the entire body. Sherlock is immediately enraptured by the corpse, his eyes attuned to the smallest details and focused so intently that everything else fades away. It has always been a sight that John found fascinating. With the current circumstances, and what happened earlier, John is finding this whole experience very surreal to say the least.

“Dr. James should be along shortly.” The assistant gives them all a thorough once over, lingering a few seconds longer on Sherlock John notices with a clenched jaw ( _why does that bother him?_ ), before leaving them alone in the room.

Greg eyes her curiously as Sherlock and John examine the body in their own way.

“They’re very accommodating here.” Greg notes with some surprise. “Mycroft’s doing do you think?”

John has noticed that too, no one has asked questions and no one has yet to look surprised at their presence (aside from the rather public spat Sherlock and he had).

“No.” Sherlock mutters, hovering over the victim’s right wrist.

From what John can see, there are deep bruise marks around the wrists of the victim’s hands, ankles and an even wider one around his neck, they appear to be perimortem. There is also a bullet wound between the eyes, likely to be the cause of death. Other than that, and the two soul marks he can see, John can’t see any other oddities.

“No?” John responds though Greg is the one who asked the question. With the presence of the agent out front and how easy it was for them to gain access, John assumed it was Mycroft’s doing. Or is Sherlock just being stubborn?

Greg looks confused too and moves closer to Sherlock and subsequently the body.

“No.” Sherlock repeats, clearly distracted and not intending to offer up further explanation.

John sighs, not wanting a potential confrontation like earlier to happen (right now at least) when they should be focusing on the victim in front them, a man Sherlock apparently knew.

There will be plenty more opportunities for confrontations with Sherlock later. John is sure of that.

Greg is leaning against the wall, watching Sherlock move elegantly around the body; inspecting everything from the victim’s fingernails (after having donned a pair of latex gloves from nearby), the roots of his hair to the clean bullet wound in the center of his forehead.

It is as Sherlock is opening the victim’s mouth and looking inside that the door behind the three men flies open.

“Sherlock Holmes!”

John jumps a little in surprise at a very loud, very exuberant voice (as does Greg) and turns around. The man is obviously the coroner, dressed in a long white coat and significantly shorter than John, bald save for faint wisps of hair around the sides and back of his head, this is offset by a thick full beard nearly pure white with only speckles of grey, thick black rimmed glasses cover golden eyes. The resemblance to Santa Claus is uncanny enough to be scary, jelly belly and all.

Sherlock straightens up from his awkward crouch. He doesn’t look at all surprised by Dr. James’ entrance. There is a faint twitch of a smile in the corner of his mouth, so small John is sure he must have imagined it.

“I’m Dr. James.” The man reaches out to shake John’s hand.

“Uh, Dr John Watson.” He replies automatically.

“Ah, I see! You must be the part time GP they hired a while back, very good, very good.” Dr James replies with an amused smile, causing John to feel a bit confused. “So you must be Greg Lestrade!” He turns his smile on Greg and also offers him a handshake.

“I am indeed.” Greg shakes his hand, also looking a bit bewildered.

“Pleasure to meet you both! Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

John frowns and backs away quickly when the doctor nearly pushes him out of the way in his haste to get to Sherlock. For a second John assumes that James is about to tell Sherlock off for being in his morgue, it wouldn’t be the first time (Molly did have her days, no matter how much leeway she gave them), but John’s jaw promptly drops to the floor when the little man throws his arms around Sherlock’s waist and Sherlock only hesitates a second before embracing the man back.

_Seriously, what the hell?_

Still shocked, John glances at Greg, the man looks just as surprised.

_They know each other?_ Greg mouths.

John turns his attention back to the anomaly of the very tall Sherlock Holmes being embraced by a man nearly half his size and actually returning the sentiment.

Sherlock Holmes _hugging_ someone and not even looking uncomfortable while doing so. This can’t be real.

Dr James appears to whisper something that causes a look John has rarely seen before to cross Sherlock’s face before being hidden behind a blank mask; pain.

James then seems to squeeze Sherlock very tightly –causing Sherlock to wince –before letting go and backing away.

“I can’t believe it’s been over twenty years! It really is good to see you laddie!” Dr. James speaks with a very recognizable Scottish accent. “When you jumped off that rooftop-” It is now Johns turn to wince, and clench his jaw at the mention. “-you bloody well scared me to death! Thank god Mr and Mrs. Holmes told me you were alive-” _Wait what?_ “-never do that again you hear me?”

Suddenly John is tense everywhere and his vision is clouded with a red haze, his entire body seems to clench. _Who the fuck is this guy? Why the fuck did_ ** _he_** _know Sherlock was alive? Apparently everyone in England including the bloody Queen knew the bastard wasn_ _’_ _t really dead!_

He knows the conversation has continued in front of him but he hasn’t heard any of it. John’s eyes are closed, and he’s breathing deeply in an attempt to control himself. The sensation of a hand touching his shoulder causes him to open his eyes.

The first thing he notices is that everyone has stopped talking and is looking at him, Greg is standing beside him (it is his hand that’s on his shoulder) with an expression of deep sympathy, the coroner even looks concerned and Sherlock...Sherlock is watching him like he knows, knows exactly what happened, of course he knows. He looks...so...so goddamn sorry and uncertain that John wants to go over there and throttle him.

John is just watching him. Trying to comprehend what is going through that brain, a pointless exercise he knows. There is no use trying to figure out why a man Sherlock apparently hasn’t seen in over twenty years knew he was alive but not John.

With a quick movement he throws off Greg’s hand and walks towards Sherlock. Dr James adjusts his glances and sidesteps out of the way and heads towards a cluttered counter a few feet away.

 

Sherlock is watching John carefully as he approaches, preparing himself for a punch. If it comes, he won’t move out of the way.

 

John stops in front of Sherlock, not saying a word.

“Dr. James is a friend of the family, in recent years he has especially become close with my parents. Mycroft told mother and father I was alive. They told him about my true status, not me.” Sherlock tells John, keeping his gaze focused on him.

John narrows his eyes.

“Who else?” John’s tone is dangerous, daring Sherlock to lie.

“John, there is no time for this now, we must continue-”

“Who. Else. Knew.” John repeats, low and threatening. His wings flare out, an ache coursing through them as he stares Sherlock down.

Sherlock sighs deeply.

“Twenty five members of my homeless network and Mycroft’s top MI6 operatives.” A pause. “That’s all.” Sherlock adds in an attempt to be reassuring. It doesn’t work.

“So just your brother, Molly Hooper, your parents, the coroner over there, at least a quarter of your homeless network and who knows how many of Mycroft’s people. Fantastic.” John, still breathing heavily, finally looks away with his eyes closed.

“Fifteen.”

John looks back up at Sherlock.

“Mycroft’s people, there were fifteen.”

 

Sherlock doesn’t know why he said that, and he is barely finished speaking before John begins to throw a punch.

 

His fist is a hairs length from colliding with Sherlock’s face when John suddenly stops.

Sherlock hasn’t moved.

He doesn’t know why that caused him to stop from punching the sod when he deserves it, but it does. John is still so, so angry. Sherlock watched as John formed a fist and threw his arm back, gaining power to throw into the punch only a trained soldier would be capable of. John knows Sherlock observed everything. Yet, Sherlock didn’t move, either to move away or to grab John. He knew John was going to punch him and he just stood there as if waiting for it...willing to take whatever John gave him. The thought reminds John of the scars that he caught a look at earlier. He feels another type of anger to join in to party with the first.

John suddenly feels a cool, silky presence on his still raised fist. Feathers are touching John lightly; stroking him...a calm feeling hums through his body, trying to sooth the fire of his anger. Sherlock...Sherlock’s _wings_ are touching him. The man doesn’t appear to know he’s doing it, his eyes watching Johns own. When he sees John looking at his own hand in shock Sherlock tilts his head and does the same.

Sherlock stiffens, as do his wings, and he recoils them in horror.

“I...didn’t mean to do that.” Sherlock mutters, sounding frustrated.

John sighs in defeat and lets his fist fall. That was...John doesn’t even know. He rests a palm on his face.

“Sorry.” The word is spoken very quietly, and surprisingly calm. John lifts his gaze to Sherlock. For a second John thinks he’s apologizing –and isn’t that a shocker –for the wing incident, but then he continues. “I can’t, _won_ _’_ _t_ apologize for _what_ I did, if nothing else believe me when I say it was necessary. It didn’t occur to me you would be so affected by my death. For that, I feel...regret.” And amazement, but Sherlock doesn’t say that out loud. “And I’m...sorry.” Sherlock feels like a child learning to walk in this conversation. He hates the feeling. But he needs John focused, so much could go wrong if he isn’t at his best. Sherlock needs him at his best, so he can’t risk potentially making John even angrier with a lengthy, fake apology that Sherlock has often done during his life when required. John may be an idiot, along with everyone else, but he is also smarter than everyone else and he would see through that. It has to be genuine, and it is.

Being back here, and this case...has Sherlock more an edge than he’s felt in a long time, another feeling he hates, and desperate for John’s forgiveness. He will only admit it to the darkest most hidden corners of his mind palace, but he needs John’s forgiveness and it pains him to know that it is unlikely he’ll ever get it.

 

“Sorry...you’re sorry.” John mumbles to himself, no longer looking at Sherlock.

He doesn’t want to think about it, not about that fact that a sorry, even from Sherlock Holmes will never be a suitable balm for all that has happened. He doesn’t want to think about the many more questions John intends to ask or the fact that in less than a day Sherlock Holmes has once again changed his life in both the worst and best way possible.

Sherlock must’ve heard John, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Shall we continue then?”

It is not a request, not really. Sherlock is only humoring him, but John can’t deny that in his state he does appreciate it none-the-less.

John doesn’t say anything; Sherlock just straightens up and gives a sharp nod.

John thinks he feels the lightest touch of a hand brushing his arm as Sherlock walks away from him and over to the coroner, whom is very obviously looking away from them in an attempt at giving them privacy.

He hears the door open behind him and Greg enters. Odd, he didn’t even notice him leaving. Then again, he was pretty distracted. The DI walks right up to John, holding two steaming cups of to-go coffee.

“There was machine in the lobby, figured you and I would both need this after the two of you were finished.” Greg comments as he hands John one of the cups.

He’s always been more of a tea man, but he will on occasion drink coffee and right now...right now coffee smells like heaven. He takes the cup gladly and sips the hot liquid.

“Ta.”

“No problem.”

Greg doesn’t ask if he’s alright, or what all that was about. He doesn’t need to.

“So, do you think the two of you will be able to get through this day alive?” He asks instead.

John actually laughs a bit.

“I have no idea.” He tips his cup to Greg before taking another sip.

“Oh you might, could get lucky.”

“Is it possible to be lucky and be in hell at the same time?” John counters.

Greg shrugs.

“I’ve recently decided that anything is possible.” Greg says, taking a sip of his own coffee.

John sighs, then looks at Sherlock; currently looking attentively at pieces of paper on a clipboard while Dr. James watches.

“We’ll see.” John eventually says.

 

***

 

The clatter of the clipboard hitting the empty metal table beside the body clues John in to Sherlock’s and the coroner’s presence by his side once more.

And just like that, it is back to the case. All other worries in John’s mind taking a back seat for the time being. John takes both his and Greg’s empty to-go cups and places them in the trash can not far away.

“A surprisingly thorough job on the autopsy Dr James, certainly compared to others you are most competent.” Sherlock says with a nod in the aforementioned man’s direction.

“Coming from you I’ll choose to take that as compliment.” Dr James appears amused.

“Sorry, I have to ask, how do you two-” John begins to ask.

“It is irrelevant.” Sherlock interrupts, clearly anxious to continue.

“Sherlock had a troubled youth, his parents sent him to live out here with his grandmother for much of his teen years since the young lad enjoyed it so much when he was a boy. I had lived here for many years even then, and I was close with Genie-”

_“_ _Marcus!_ _”_ Sherlock hisses, suddenly angry.

“Who’s Genie?” Greg asks just as John was about to.

Dr. James looks surprised and turns to look at Sherlock.

“You’ve never told them? Not even Dr Watson here? He is your-”

“ _Enough!_ ” Sherlock roars. Everyone shuts up quickly. “Now is _not_ the time. If I have to endure anymore interruptions or listen to this pointless babbling the case will suffer, and I _need_ to solve it.”

Sherlock is practically vibrating with the energy of his words, darting fierce eyes between the three of them.

Who’s Genie? And why is Sherlock hell-bent on this case and yet for the first time that John knows of, is showing none of his usual tells of getting a high from solving a murder? Is it because he knows the man? But in what way? It must have to do with his pseudo exile, how though? With the emphasis Sherlock put on need...John is more bewildered than ever.

Greg puts his hands up in surrender. Dr James abruptly closes his mouth, looks frustrated for a moment but concedes with a nod. John, not entirely sure why he does it, decides to throw Sherlock a bone.

“Well, what do we have so far?” John asks.

Sherlock looks momentarily surprised. He holds John’s gaze for a few seconds before nodding gratefully.

“His name is Jeffery Coffer. He was a member of my homeless network. Twenty two years old.” Sherlock states matter-of-factly, though John doesn’t miss the stiffness in his shoulders and the twitching in his wings.

_There_ _’_ _s the connection._

“I’m sorry Sherlock.” John says, entirely genuine.

Sherlock ignores him.

“He’s been dead less then forty eight hours, bound by leather straps on his wrists and neck, and chains on his feet-” Sherlock points to the mentioned body parts while he speaks, his voice already beginning to speed up like it does when he’s about to begin a long diatribe of deducing. “-likely wrapped around them multiple times and attached to a single longer chain, probably attached to a ring or heavy weight in the middle of a floor. The bruising pattern and abrasions suggest he tried to pull against them for hours at a time. He wore a device that connected his wrists and neck together, because of that he wasn’t able to move them hardly at all, the bruising is weaker there. His front teeth are broken and there are multiple cracks on many of the others. Something long, wide, hard and irregularly shaped was stuffed through his mouth and down his throat; far enough to prevent him from crying out, not far enough to allow for suffocation. He would’ve been in considerable pain, and for a long time. The bruising pattern on his tongue and roof of his mouth suggests it was a gun-”

“A gun?! Bloody hell.” Greg exclaims, wiping a hand down his horrified face.

John doesn’t say anything; maintaining a steady facade, though he is equally horrified. Much of what Sherlock described is similar to a lot of what he saw during his time in war, he wonders if there’s a connection with it somehow.

Sherlock gives Greg an irritated look, clearly annoyed at the interruption, he continues without comment however.

“Yes, a gun. I deduce it was probably the barrel end of a sniper rifle-” Sherlock’s fist clenches and he looks up at John, breaking his gaze from the body, when he mentions the gun being a sniper rifle. “-military issue. I doubt the murderer themselves was in the military, merely had access to or knew someone who was, although they would’ve had to have at least minor skill in marksmanship. He was held captive for seven days before being killed. The bullet that killed Coffer was fired by the same gun that was shoved into his mouth, while he was still bound and unable to move.”

John frowns.

“Why would the murderer bother using a military issue sniper rifle to kill a bound man? He was immobile, and if all they wanted to do was kill him a hand gun would’ve been much simpler. Using that kind of gun to kill him...I don’t know, just seems odd to me. They must’ve had another reason for it.” John posits, crossing his arms.

Sherlock grins briefly.

“An excellent point John, and one the police and medical personnel here didn’t even notice-”

“Oi!” Dr James exclaims.

“-and one even Lestrade here could’ve pointed out even with his force of trained monkeys.”

“Gee thanks.” Greg gives Sherlock a look and rolls his eyes.

John turns his head to the side so no one can see the smile threatening to break out on his face. He feels a bit pathetic, and it is not a situation to be smiling about, but getting genuine praise from Sherlock feels...good, perhaps because it was always seldom given. _Definitely pathetic._

Sherlock continues.

“The type of gun used is heavily involved in the motivation of this crime. The fact that the body was placed quite clearly on display is meant to convey a message. This won’t be the last murder this person commits, there will be two more and they have already been kidnapped and are likely being held where Coffer was. It could be anywhere within a two to four hours driving distance. I’ll need to look at the evidence and his clothing to get a more accurate read on where he was kept and killed. Dr James, could you get me-”

“Whoa whoa whoa! You said the gun was heavily involved in the motivation for this crime...” Greg halts Sherlock.

Sherlock looks at him like he’s being slow.

“Yes...?”

“You sound like you know what the motivation is.”

Sherlock visibly stiffens, though his face gives nothing away.

“I know nothing for certain, but with what I know so far it is the usual. Revenge. _Love._ Nothing unique.” He shrugs, attempting to appear nonchalant.

Greg doesn’t look like he completely believes him. John doesn’t either. His gut is telling him Sherlock is lying...again.

“You said all this is involved with your return, how?” John asks.

“Merely my return here, I didn’t allude to anything more than that.” Sherlock is adamant, leaning down once more to hover over the body, his gaze fixated on a point on the victim’s neck.

Greg and John share a look. Dr James is watching Sherlock with a curious expression.

Sherlock’s response, while logical, doesn’t feel right.

“Sherlock, what’s going on?” John asks, trying not to sound as frustrated as he feels.

Sherlock doesn’t answer him. The movement in his wings though has changed, like they’re trying to hide from John’s gaze. If John looks closely...they look like they’re quivering. Why?

“Dr James, assist me.” The older man and Sherlock carefully twist Coffer so his torso is resting on his side and his back is facing the two of them.

Sherlock freezes, and reaches out with a long latex covered finger, lightly touching something on the victim’s back.

Both Greg and John move around to see what he’s looking at.

There, carved very deeply across the upper back of Jeffery Coffer are a series of letters:

 

YKMIWKY

 

“I saw those when I was doing the autopsy, no idea what they mean.” Dr James comments. “It was done post-mortem.”

“Nothing I recognize either.” Greg says, leaning down slightly to take a closer look.

John looks away from the letters and up at Sherlock, who still hadn’t moved upon seeing the letters. He looks...in a word, petrified. The fact that John can see it and Sherlock hasn’t masked it yet, is in some ways more worrying than the fear itself.

John moves a bit closer to him.

“Sherlock? Are you ok?” John asks, quietly so no one else can hear.

Sherlock’s focus remains glued to the letters on the victim’s back.

“No.” The word comes out in a hush, if John weren’t paying attention he doubts he would’ve heard it. He is surprised by the honest answer.

John looks at Greg and then at Dr James. He catches Sherlock’s attention by pulling him a bit by his coat sleeve. Sherlock looks at him with confusion before noticing John wants to pull him away to talk more privately.

Sherlock concedes and follows John with caution to a far corner of the room.

John stops walking and turns to face Sherlock.

“Will you tell me what’s going on? I’m not an idiot, you clearly know more than you’re telling us. I haven’t seen you like this before.” John urges.

“A lot can change in two years.” Sherlock says, sounding almost sad for a moment before regaining his normal professional baritone.

John’s expression darkens slightly.

“I’ve seen you scared before Sherlock, remember?” John points out, the both of them flashing back to Baskerville. “I know what you look like scared.”

“So you’re saying I look scared? Don’t be daft.” Sherlock scoffs.

“Sherlock...”

“I really don’t see why it would matter to you anyway.”

“What?”

“I am not conceding your point, merely wondering why my state of being matters to you when you clearly hold very little regard for me at present. You said yourself dealing with me was ‘an unfortunate side-effect’ in comparison to this case. If anything, you should be more concerned about the fact that there is a serial killer out there who needs to be caught.” Sherlock says this all with a shuttered gaze and no emotion in his voice; the ultimate poker face.

John growls.

“I didn’t mean that.” He insists. Not in the way he’s implying anyway.

“Yes you did.” Sherlock argues.

“No, I didn’t. Not like that...” John says, suddenly feeling on edge and very uncomfortable.

Sherlock looks doubtful, leaning slightly forwards.

“And how, pray tell, did you mean it then?” Sherlock asks.

John’s jaw flaps for a moment before closing completely. _What did I mean? I meant it, at the time I certainly did, but..._ John groans, getting frustrated.

“Sherlock, back to my original point. You said you weren’t ok, and you won’t tell me why?”

“That is correct.” Sherlock accepts the obvious deviation in topic.

“And you won’t tell me what it is you’re hiding? Don’t say you aren’t, this is one time when I know I’m right.” John adds the last sentence when Sherlock looked like he was about to protest. Sherlock doesn’t say anything, watching John with a studious gaze. “I don’t get it, you say you need my help, but you won’t tell me what’s going on? How can I help if you know something I don’t?”

“I always know something you don’t.” Sherlock says simply, with a minor shrug very characteristic of the detective.

“Do you want to be punched? Is that what this is about?” John asks, getting annoyed.

“Maybe.” Sherlock smirks.

“You’re a bastard.”

“Now that I’ll concede to.” Sherlock is smiling now.

John tries not to, biting his lips, but he fails and finds himself smiling also. Sherlock looks relieved.

It is oddly reminiscent of their old banter; it is both a reassuring and painful balm to the wound Sherlock gave him. John knows what Sherlock is doing, deviating from answering John’s question. The thought makes him feel both frustrated and angry, after everything Sherlock is still lying, but...maybe it is because of their new bond, but something is instinctively telling John that Sherlock isn’t lying to him because he doesn’t trust him; which if John is going to be honest, is what he’s afraid of here. John, at the moment, ironically doesn’t trust that instinct. He still harbors resentment (more than resentment) that so many people knew about his and he didn’t. And there’s another thing that John doesn’t get. Sherlock’s told him why he did what he did, but he hasn’t given John an answer as to why he left him completely out of it that has John in anyway satisfied. Maybe he’ll never get the answer he wants, maybe it doesn’t exist.

It is a depressing line of thought. And the moment of fond normality that Sherlock and John shared is gone in a blink.

Sherlock seems to notice and watches John’s thought pattern on his face, his smile falling along with Johns and his eyes barring any light that had been shining through them before...a look akin to misery passes over his face.

John looks away from Sherlock, closes his eyes for a second and takes a deep breath. Still not looking at Sherlock, he walks around him and back towards Greg and Dr James.

He doesn’t get very far before he hears Sherlock speak.

“You seem to have this idea that I didn’t, or don’t, trust you. That you don’t...matter to me.”

John stops moving, clenching his fists.

“Can you blame me?” John says without turning around.

There is a pause.

“No.” Sherlock admits. “Nevertheless, I have often found that when someone forms an opinion, particularly an idiotic one, it is impossible to convince them otherwise.” Sherlock is speaking so quietly it is hard to make out his tone.

John rolls his eyes, still not facing him.

“Your point?”

John hears footsteps from behind him. Sherlock comes into his line of vision and fixes him with a steadfast gaze.

“I should think my point is obvious.”

“That I’m an idiot?” John isn’t sure whether to be annoyed or not.

“Precisely.” Sherlock says, seeming almost proud.

With that, he turns around and strides toward the other two men in the room still hovering around the body; picking up the autopsy report as he goes.

Sherlock may be an intellectual, logical, a scientist and genius of reasoning, but when it comes to emotions and other aspects of human behaviour, Johns a bloody master compared to him. Now though, he feels lost. Was that Sherlock’s roundabout way of saying John matters to him? Maybe, John isn’t entirely convinced, and right now trying to analyze the feelings of Sherlock Holmes is giving him a headache. Sherlock has never expressed himself in the traditional way, that’s one thing that hasn’t changed at least...a fact he finds almost comforting. God he’s fucked up.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a tumblr account if you have any questions or don't mind observing my fangirl craziness: http://shiplovinglyalways.tumblr.com/


	6. How many times do I have to tell you...

Chapter 5

 

After some diplomatic cajoling from Dr James and Greg (even though he was told _‘_ _this isn_ _’_ _t your bloody station_ _’_ by the local Inspector), a not so diplomatic diatribe about Inspector Chord’s hobby collecting tree bark ( _what the hell?_ ) and affair with the daughter of the local barber by Sherlock, and John trying to keep the peace even though he knew it was pointless, Sherlock finally got a hold of the evidence from Jeffery Coffer’s murder and access to the laboratory (‘ _even though our staff is fully capable_ ’, to which Sherlock scoffed) much to the embarrassment of Inspector Chord. They had already been given full access and permission to take over the case, as was evidenced by the obvious disgruntlement of the newly appointment Inspector.

Sherlock had just entered the empty lab, not as accessible or high-end in their equipment as St Barts, John and Greg following behind, when Sherlock gathered the box of evidence laying on the nearest table in his arms and practically shoved it in John’s direction.

“Oi!” John had exclaimed, rearranging the box more securely in his grip.

Sherlock ignored him and proceeded to quickly stride around the room disconnecting equipment, and gathering supplies into a large brown paper bag he’d pulled from one of the cupboards.

John rightly wondered what the hell Sherlock was up to.

“What are you-” Greg started to ask before the large paper bag was summarily shoved in his direction much like John and the box.

Also much like with John, Sherlock ignored him. He then pulled out his phone and began to text frantically.

“What are we your lackeys?” John asked a bit sharply.

“No of course not.” Sherlock uttered without lifting his gaze from his phone. John rolled his eyes. “George here-”

“Greg.” Lestrade muttered with annoyance.

“-is our transportation.” Sherlock finished.

Greg raised an eyebrow.

“Oh is that what I am?” He grunted, shifting the box of heavy supplies in his arms while John had fixed Sherlock with a disapproving glare.

“Yes, you are one of my most trusted individuals; the fact that you also own a car is a bonus.” Sherlock waved a hand in their direction and frowned at his phone for some unknown reason.

Greg sighed.

“I feel like I’m a teenager again, only wanted because Sally Brown needed my bloody car to go on a date that wasn’t with me.” Greg grumbled, he looked annoyed with Sherlock’s explanation but accepted it.

John chuckled a little, Greg then proceeded to elbow him in the side. Out of the corner of his eye John saw Sherlock’s mouth twitch.

“We have a minute until reinforcements arrive.” Sherlock said. He picked up a few small things and placed them on top of the already heavy evidence box in John’s arms.

“Hey hey hey! Seriously, what the bloody hell are you doing? Reinforcements for what?” John started feeling a bit more annoyed.

Sherlock didn’t answer. He surveyed the room with a critical eye, walking around it quickly once more.

“If Greg is the ‘transportation’, what am I the coat rack?”

Sherlock whirled around to face John. The latter could almost see the smart comment about John obviously not being a coat rack due to having anything but a coat in his arms, but just as quickly Sherlock seemed to reconsider his response and merely shrugged; trying to seem casual.

“I do not view you as a piece of furniture John.”

Really? John thought, at that moment and several times since Sherlock returned John certainly felt as useful as one.

“Really.” Sherlock said truthfully.

John didn’t realize he had said that out loud. He didn’t get to question Sherlock further, didn’t particularly want to, when the door opened and said reinforcements arrived; a couple of the lab techs, they looked highly annoyed and nervous when they glanced at Sherlock. Probably saw what Sherlock reduced the Inspector too, poor sods, clearly Sherlock’s social skills are as nonexistent as always.

After that, what followed was really quite bizarre and John still isn’t entirely sure why Sherlock said it was necessary, although John did note with a frown that Sherlock has been using the word ‘necessary’ almost too much.

At least John got an answer as to what he was doing turning the lab inside out.

Sherlock had confiscated at least half of the lab’s equipment with the full intention of setting it up at the cottage and investigating the evidence there. Much like in Baker Street.

It seemed like an awful lot of trouble when it would’ve been easier to just do everything that needed to be done at the lab itself, without having to deal with the hassle of moving everything. Almost everything. Apparently there is still some testing Sherlock wouldn’t be able to do (if it became necessary) at the cottage, much to his chagrin, but he made sure everything that could be moved was.

How on earth he got permission to do that...could be Mycroft’s doing, but if it was, Sherlock hasn’t said so and given how he’s been acting around the mention of his brother, John doubts he would accept that help and probably found another way. Only Sherlock Holmes could get permission to basically steal valuable equipment.

Greg and John, had brought up the point that Sherlock’s isn’t the only case the police are probably dealing with and that they would actually need this equipment and supplies. To which John had asked why he couldn’t just ask Mycroft for what he needed if it really was necessary, since the man was clearly keeping an eye on the situation anyway. Sherlock had then given John a death glare that might’ve had John running scared if he hadn’t built up immunity to it years ago.

As for the other police cases, Sherlock had said that he didn’t actually take everything and he is certain even the trained apes here could handle solving whatever minor cases they have for the time being with what he left behind. Sherlock clarified by saying that there is no other case more important than this one. He said it with such conviction, clearly daring them to argue, that John didn’t have the energy to say anything more and he and Greg shared a look between each other.

John didn’t notice that Sherlock, at the time, was eying John and trying to seem as casual as possible while doing so, though worry threatened to crack that cool facade.

 

Greg did though and resolved to ask Sherlock, alone and at the first opportunity, what was going on with him. He isn’t even sure if either of them have noticed, but the two of them have grown increasingly tense over the course of the day in a way that Greg recognizes, he watched it happen with his daughter and her best-friend (though Greg suspects the relationship between Sherlock and John is different here, whether the two buggers ever admit it or not) when they met for the first time and began to grow wings. Unconsciously drifting towards each other, he even noticed that one of Sherlock’s wings touched John without Sherlock noticing; instincts beginning to kick in.

Sherlock will probably ignore it for as long as possible, hating that this is something out of his control and Greg is worried John will wait only until absolutely necessary, even though the both of them will be in physical pain (among other things) by then because they are both the most stubborn arses Greg has ever met. Honestly, he’s surprised this didn’t happen when they met the first time; he didn’t even know it was actually possible for the connection to be this long delayed. He thought it was only a theory, everyone he’s ever met has always said the connection is immediate.

Really though, this couldn’t have happened at a worse time.

All this is what Greg Lestrade is thinking now. Between the three of them, they’ve managed to set up the equipment and supplies on the kitchen table. John highly protested that, and Greg had seen his patience close to blowing up again when Sherlock insisted that it was the most logical place, John then retorted that this is his house and why is he even doing this here at all, to which both Greg and John looked alarmed at the sudden flash of anger on Sherlock’s face that quickly dissipated and he simply stared at him instead, in the end Sherlock got his way...no surprise there.

Now, feeling a little worn out, Greg has given in to being mother and puts on the kettle for the three of them.

Behind him, Sherlock is carefully laying out the evidence from the Jeffery Coffer murder, and John is sitting at the kitchen table staring out the window.

As Greg waits for the kettle to boil, he turns around and watches the duo with a thoughtful eye. He gives John a careful once over before nodding and making a decision. With a deep breath he walks over and claps John on the shoulder, shocking the man out of his reverie.

“What-”

“You really look like you could use a breather.” Greg says, keeping his eyes on John.

John narrows his eyes. Sherlock doesn’t appear to listening, having finished organizing the evidence and now carefully setting up the equipment.

John appears to deliberate, looking at Sherlock, the table and back up to Greg.

Greg eyes Sherlock very pointedly. John’s mouth parts in a silent ‘oh’.

“Ah, right. I could use a break from...this.” Greg suspects John means Sherlock more than anything else.

Greg nods and lets his hand fall.

“I’ll let you know when the tea is ready.”

“Ta.” John pushes his chair back and stands up. “I think I’ll go outside for a walk-”

“No.” Sherlock says. The sod was listening after all, although you would never have known it.

“No?” John glowers at Sherlock.          

Greg looks at Sherlock like he’s the one being an idiot.

“Don’t go outside.” Sherlock says. When he is met with silence, Sherlock looks up and is met with the face of an increasingly irritated John. Sherlock sighs and closes his eyes briefly. “Please.”

Greg’s eyebrows reach his hairline; Sherlock seldom says please and means it. Greg can tell he means it this time, the look he’s giving John could almost be called imploring. John is still glaring at him, hands gripping the back of his chair tightly, mouth opening and closing, debating whether to speak or not. Or rather, debating whether he should bother asking why.

_What is Sherlock playing at?_ Greg wonders.

John and Sherlock hold each other’s gazes, the former closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and with a frustrated push on the chair, he walks out of the kitchen; waves of barely controlled emotion rolling off him.

Soon after, the sound of an upstairs door slamming echoes throughout the small cottage.

Greg rests a palm on his face and sighs deeply. Having Sherlock Holmes and John Watson as soul mates is far more exhausting than being a DI.

Desperately hoping to get some answers, Greg faces Sherlock; currently donning a pair of latex gloves and opening one of the evidences bags, he takes out a dirty red t-shirt.

Sherlock hums, looking at the garment with narrowed eyes.

“Sherlock-”

“Why would they bother redressing him? They held him captive, unclothed, for days. Yet the murderer redressed him in the clothes he was kidnapped in.” Sherlock says, seemingly to no one in particular. “Why...”

Ignoring that for the time being, Greg sits down across from Sherlock.

“Sherlock-”

“I doubt the idiots bothered testing the dirt residue under the collar here-” A small stab of heat behind his right ear causes Sherlock to freeze in his examination of the t-shirt. “ _Don_ _’_ _t do that!_ ” Sherlock growls and sends Greg a dark glare.

Greg smirks. He takes away his finger from the top of his hand.

When Sherlock and Greg first met, back when he arrested the young man for possession (and then proceeded to deduce, correctly as it turned out, the identity of the murderer in the case he was working on at the time while he was driving him to the Yard), they discovered their soul ability was a mutual one. They could touch the soul mark they possess and the one on their soul mate would flare up in heat, this is possible at any distance. When Sherlock was “dead” Greg touched the soul mark so many times, Sherlock must’ve felt each one. Losing Sherlock was like...losing a son to him, which is why he is determined to get to the bottom of this _now._

“We need to talk.” Greg says all seriousness.

“No, we really don’t.” Sherlock reaches for a slide, holding it up to the collar of the t-shirt.

“ _Yes_ , we do.” Greg slams his hand on the table.

Sherlock doesn’t flinch, but he does pause in his movements.

“Talk if you insist. I’ll be sure _not_ to listen or respond, especially considering what you intend on asking me. What I’m doing now is far more important than your misplaced concern or knowledge of facts that you are not required to know.”

Greg clasps his hands together on the table top.

“You think I’m going to ask you what this case is really about? Why are you lying to both John and I about your involvement and how much you know, or the full story on why you faked your death?” Greg asks. He sighs. “Never mind. That is a whole minefield I do not want to get into right now.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, his face carefully blank.

“You will have to at least tell John though.” Greg adds for good measure. He uses his most stern voice, willing those words to sink into that genius brain.

Now Sherlock flinches, a barely noticeable movement. He pulls a microscope closer to his position and sets the round slide on the device, the dirt a neat little pile on top of it.

He doesn’t confirm or deny Greg’s statement. Greg sighs and leans forward; bracing himself.

“I actually want to talk about those.” Greg points to Sherlock’s wings, shimmering with the colours of John Watson’s eyes, the moonlight streaming through the window casts an eerie shadow on their quivering movement.

Sherlock’s eyes, now peering through the microscope, glance briefly in the direction of his wings; he shifts uncomfortably.

“You know, I think you _should_ talk to John about all that other stuff, I know you’re worried about him for some reason, but you _have_ to talk to him about this. It really is better to seal the bond now rather than later, if you wait too long it will impede your ability to function quite badly.” Greg remembers having a conversation like this one with his daughter, and having it now with Sherlock Holmes of all people is very weird, to say the least.

True to his word, Sherlock doesn’t say anything and continues to expertly turn the dials on the microscope.

Just then, the kettle boils. Greg gets up from the table and goes to make the tea, filling the ceramic yellow pot with the boiling water; the steam of the fragrant darkening liquid wafts up through his sinuses. Placing the tea warmer over top, he sets it to steep and walks back over to resume his perch across from Sherlock.

“You cannot avoid this Sherlock, I know you want to, but this is one thing you can’t avoid.” Greg insists, his voice becoming urgent. Sherlock is getting even more tense. “Whatever you feel about yourself, think about John-”

“I do.” Sherlock says, quietly, and much to Greg’s surprise. “And that is why I will attempt to not burden him with this for as long as possible.”

“Bollocks!” Greg contradicts. Sherlock actually looks up now, clearly taken aback by Greg’s quick reaction. “I’m not a complete idiot, I’ve noticed over the years how, more than any other soul bond; deep soul mates have always made you extra tetchy. I don’t know what happened, but clearly you’re avoiding this development with John for other reasons.”

Sherlock huffs, but Greg doesn’t miss the tightening of his jaw.

“Oh brilliant deduction Lestrade, perhaps you should be the Consulting Detective and I the lowly DI. Are you quite done? Yes? Good, now _leave me alone_ _._ ” Sherlock’s tone is biting; he pointedly looks away from Greg, focusing once more down the lens of the microscope.

Greg exhales heavily.

“Fine, just listen then. I hope for your sake that you seriously consider what I’m about to say, I’d hate to deal with the fallout from both of you if this all goes to hell. I do need sleep once in a while.” Greg combs a worried hand through his greying hair, thinking that he might as well be blunt.

Sherlock doesn’t respond, his eyebrows creasing together; nimble fingers adjusting the position of the dials on the side of the microscope. With one hand resting on the device, Sherlock uses the other to make a note in the open pad to his right.

“You love him.”

Sherlock tenses, his entire body eerily still.

“Love is a dangerous emotion, a disadvantage that weakens the mind and drives people to distraction, to the point where it becomes their sole goal in life at the expense of any more useful pursuits. I am not nor will I ever be capable of _love._ ”Sherlock insists, his voice low and haunting.

How did this man, supposedly a genius, manage to convince himself of something so utterly ridiculous? “Then why tell John you were alive? Why not solve the case without him?” Greg asks.

“I am _not_ discussing this with you.” Sherlock spits, abruptly standing up from the chair and moving over to the tea pot.

“Deny it all you want, Sherlock; I know you have a heart.”

Sherlock is facing away from him.

“Even though I faked my death knowing full well you two would grieve for me and not caring less about that fact?” Sherlock speaks in a cold monotone.

Greg ignores the pang in his heart at that.

“I’ve watched you interact with John all day; I don’t think you really did know. You think you’re heartless, incapable of love, and maybe you want to be, but you aren’t. Can you honestly tell me that if John were to die you wouldn’t care?” Greg stands up, walks a bit towards Sherlock but keeps his distance.

Sherlock pours himself a cup of tea, his movements almost mechanical. Greg notices a slight shakiness to Sherlock’s hand as he puts the pot back down. He doesn’t answer. Greg takes that as a minor victory.

“You love John, and if you don’t get your head out of your arse you will both end up miserable and you could lose him. The man is almost as stubborn as you.”

“You really need to find new metaphors Lestrade.” Sherlock smirks. “I will do whatever it takes to keep John Watson safe.” Sherlock adds, much more quietly.

So says the supposedly heartless man.

“Is that what this case is about?” Greg says, understanding dawning on his face. “You’re protecting John somehow?”

There is an air of solemnity about Sherlock now. He slowly turns to look at Greg.

“I have made far too many mistakes. Mistakes I refuse to make again.” Is all he says, and he could be referring to anything, but in this moment Greg feels that the man before him is allowing him a small glimpse into the turmoil beneath that icy exterior.

Greg glances away before looking at Sherlock. He walks towards the man, Sherlock watches him with a slight suspicion.

“And that is how I know, no matter how heartless you may act sometimes or most of the time, you _do_ have one.” Greg says with a sad smile. Sherlock rolls his eyes, taking a sip of his tea. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, and...For now, I won’t ask. I will however say this.” Greg takes a risk and puts a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock eyes it for a moment and looks away, but he doesn’t dislodge it. “You need to apologize to John, really apologize to him and mean it. I don’t care why you did it; it was wrong and cruel in the most horrible way possible and I don’t think you truly realise that. You may pretend otherwise, but I can tell you want his forgiveness. If you ever want to get it, you need to admit you were wrong and stop justifying it. It would certainly be a step in the right direction at least.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything. Greg pats his should once and turns to exit the kitchen, sensing the conversation is now at a close, with the intention of letting John know the tea is ready.

“You forgive me.” Sherlock whispers with a quiet gasp.

Greg stops moving, turning to look at him once more. Greg sighs.

“I do.”

“Why?”

Greg has asked himself that, he only found out he was alive today, how can he forgive so quickly?

“Because refusing to forgive you is way too exhausting, in the end I’m just glad you’re alive.” Greg shrugs.

Sherlock nods.

“How can you forgive me so easily for an act that would be considered reprehensible to many and yet John clearly can’t?” Sherlock asks, letting a bit of his frustration show.

“We’re different people.”

“That’s too easy.” Sherlock shakes his head.

Greg snorts. “I don’t think it is.”

Greg turns back around and exits the kitchen.

_And John isn_ _’_ _t the only one who needs to get his head out of his arse._

 


	7. My worst distraction, my rhythm and blues

Chapter 6

 

It is nearly 4:00am according to John’s clock. Greg went to sleep hours ago, if the loud snoring across the hall is any indication. If John really listens, he can hear the faint sounds of Sherlock still moving around the kitchen every now and then. The rest of day had passed in a haze of tension, Sherlock working in the kitchen, pacing frantically around the house, often with his eyes closed, and Greg and John feeling essentially useless because Sherlock wouldn’t let them do anything, inform them of his progress or tell them anything that was going through his mind. John especially felt ticked because Sherlock got angry whenever John wanted to go outside alone and Sherlock wouldn’t tell him why, for the sake of his blood pressure John relented. And then, when John pointed out he would have to go into work soon, Sherlock then told him he called and told his boss he was sick and would be taking a leave of absence. Suffice to say, nothing had gone particularly smoothly that day.

John went to bed at midnight and tried going to sleep...but when he did, he was hit with a nightmare.

_Sherlock was lying on the pavement outside St Barts, almost peaceful. No one around, blood pooling everywhere, at first glance it looked like it was coming from Sherlock...but it was pouring out of Johns chest. Tears of horrible pain fell down his face as he watched his dead friend, the both of them frozen and unable to move. Suddenly, Sherlock opened his eyes; they were pure white...empty. His face, deathly pale, turned to face John. John didn_ _’_ _t react and continued to sob, kneeling before the moving corpse of Sherlock Holmes. The world around him turned to red fog, a loud whooshing sound gave John the strongest urge to scream. Sherlock was suddenly in front of him; still covered in blood, still pale, his eyes a swirling milky white. He leaned towards John, lips a hairs breadth from touching his own. John felt his burning hot tears continue to fall. Suddenly there was a sharp pain in his chest as John screamed out, causing the red fog to darken, swirl and attack itself. He looked down and saw a coat covered arm through his chest, grasping around his beating heart. Panic, overwhelming panic threatened to tear John apart. He couldn_ _’_ _t move, he wanted to move but...he couldn_ _’_ _t. He felt another arm curl around his shoulder, cold when it touched his suddenly naked body._

_“_ _I_ _’_ _ve got you._ _”_ _Sherlock_ _’_ _s deep voiced breathed out, hoarse and icy cold._

_John noticed Sherlock had become naked as well, his head now resting on Johns shoulder; back bare to Johns eyes where he can see hundreds of scars flaring bright red across that pale skin._

_John whimpered, his heart and body torn, aching. Why couldn_ _’_ _t he move? Why, why, why..._

_“_ _You will always lose me. And I will always be here._ _”_ _As if to emphasize his words, the hand of Sherlock Holmes strengthened his literal grip around John_ _’_ _s heart._

_“_ _I don_ _’_ _t want you here._ _”_ _John screamed out._

_There was a dark chuckle._

_“_ _You_ _’_ _re lying._ _”_

_John couldn_ _’_ _t deny it. He knew it was the truth._

_“_ _If you_ _’_ _re not here, then I can_ _’_ _t lose you again._ _”_ _John found himself saying, tears punctuating his words._

_“_ _You will always lose me._ _”_ _Dream Sherlock repeated._

_Around them, the fog darkened to black, Sherlock_ _’_ _s words echoing loudly everywhere...a hole opened up in the ground before them and Sherlock fell backwards; disconnecting himself from John, the black vortex sucking him in._

_John wailed. A hollow ache filled him up when he realized his chest was empty._

_The last thing John saw before Sherlock disappeared was a pale fist clutching a blood red heart._

 

That is when John woke up, three hours ago and he hasn’t been able to fall asleep since.

After waking up covered in sweat, wings flapping over and over again (he belated realized they had grown, though still not full sized), John had shakily gotten out of bed; took his sheets off, got changed into clean and dry boxer shorts, and then collapsed onto the bare mattress. He’s been staring at his ceiling ever since then; feeling phantom pains from the nightmare echo in his chest. There is an additional ache that hasn’t ceased since he awoke, a feeling of faint irritation dancing across his skin. John assumes it’s from the nightmare.

How does one even begin to process a dream like that?

Considering the day he had, John isn’t surprised he ended up having a nightmare, although contents of the nightmare were surprising...in a way, and the sheer vividness of it was...painfully intense. John thinks he remembers reading somewhere that deep soul mates, when they dream about the other, it is a more vivid and powerful experience than any other.

 _Perfect._ John groans in frustration.

John isn’t even sure what he’s doing, staring at the ceiling uselessly.

Waiting for something to coalesce and make sense? Waiting for his soldier ingrained control to take over and allow him to breathe? Waiting for all this, everything, to have been a dream?

Sherlock is alive. _Alive_ , not dead. So much other crap is going on, but that fact more than any other is what is reverberating throughout John’s mind. When John awoke from the nightmare, the fact that Sherlock had faked his death didn’t even matter, it mattered that Sherlock was alive and here in his house. Not in a box underneath the cold, hard earth. Of course all the other feelings associated with that seeped in after awhile, leaving that intense relief of Sherlock being alive stained with a vein of anger, hurt and leftover grief. John knows he has every right to feel that way, but he can’t really understand _why_ he feels _so_ angry, like his body is boiling from the heat of it. Why can’t he be like Greg and be hurt, be angry, but just be grateful Sherlock is alive? John has never been one to forgive easily, but this feels different. It’s almost as though...but that’s just the point, he doesn’t know how to finish that sentence. He feels angry for a reason he can’t name, and that just increases Johns frustration.

John is wide awake, but he closes his eyes briefly. The image from the nightmare that has stuck in his mind the most, not the arm through his chest, but the image of Sherlock’s back...maybe because it is closer to reality than anything else in that confusing horror. The scars he saw on Sherlock yesterday were obviously healed; but they didn’t look like they healed _well_ , and some looked relatively recent.

John finally feels _something_ coalesce; his abilities as a doctor, a thing he can use as distraction. John swings his legs off the bed and goes into the bathroom. He searches for the white box in the cabinet above the sink; his first aid kit.

John could define this as two birds with one stone, as cliché as the metaphor is. He gets to actually do something and maybe feel useful, and he’ll be able to see Sherlock not covered in blood with eerie white eyes. Of course that’s if he can get the sod to cooperate.

Donned tightly in his robe (his wings being small enough at this stage to be encompassed within the fabric), with purpose in his steps and a substantial aid kit in his left hand, John quietly exits his bedroom and heads down the stairs.

The kitchen light is on and there are the faint murmurings of Sherlock’s voice. John can’t make out anything specific but he sounds angry. As John approaches he catches the tail end of what sounds like an argument.

“-hadn’t done it this _would not have happened in the first place!_ If anything happens to him because of what you did, if anything happens to him at all, I will hold you personally responsible and I _will_ be merciless.”

John stops walking and frowns. _Who_ _’_ _s he talking about? Or rather who is he talking to?_

He hears a faint beep, Sherlock must’ve hung up.

“Unless you have developed temporary paralysis, you can come in now John.” Sherlock raises his voice slightly, vestiges of the darkness he heard in his voice before linger.

 _Shit._ John sighs. _Of course he knew you were there. Him and his very selective bat-like hearing._

John walks forward and pushes the door of the kitchen open wide.

Sherlock, still wearing those sweats from earlier, is standing by the kitchen window facing John; phone clenched tightly in his hand. There is an odd look on his face, one John hasn’t seen before and is finding difficult to place, as he looks at a piece of needle point art hanging on the wall. It is a bright purple Iris flower, with an almost cartoon like bee resting on a petal. It was there when John moved in.

If John had to place the look on Sherlock’s face it would be...lamenting. [i] _Strange.[/i]_ Not for the first time John wonders what the connection is between Sherlock and this house.

Sherlock closes his eyes briefly, takes a deep breath and turns around. He looks at John carefully, eyes whipping up and down John curiously. A frown morphs his expression into concern; probably deducing the signs of John having a nightmare. He coughs and glances away, throwing his phone carelessly onto the countertop. Sherlock walks over to the kitchen table, eying the first aid kit in Johns hand as he sits down.

“That’s for me.” Sherlock rests his elbows on the chaotic table (papers, evidence bags, crime scene photos, Johns laptop, and various equipment scattered everywhere on its surface) gesturing pointedly to the white box.

“Mhm.” John hums, walking over to Sherlock and placing the box firmly in front of him; causing a few pages of note paper to flutter.

He’s watching Sherlock with a firm gaze, and the man doesn’t hesitate in giving him a calculating look back.

“You want to look at my scars, now, at four in the morning.” Sherlock sounds very disbelieving but he doesn’t look away from John. He shifts uncomfortably and his wings automatically curl protectively over his back. “I assure you they are quite healed.” Sherlock speaks firmly, clearly intending on ending the conversation and ignoring John. “I am very busy.”

John doesn’t move. Sherlock, disregarding John’s presence, reaches across to bring the open laptop closer to him, before he can do that John closes it and holds it out of his reach.

“John! Give it to me!” Sherlock growls. He immediately stands and makes a swipe for it, John dodges him easily.

“It’s _my_ bloody laptop!” John argues with a fierce look.

Sherlock is chasing him around the table now. The sight would almost be considered funny, but there is nothing joking or playful in the demeanor of these two men.

“Stop! This is idiotic and juvenile; I _need_ that for the case.”

John is still holding the laptop up high. He stops on one side of the table; Sherlock staring him down from the other. Neither man looks at all happy.

They are at an impasse.

“Why are you so freaked out by me taking a look at your scars?” John asks.

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“Don’t be stupid, I am not ‘freaked’out.” His tone is sardonic. “There is simply no need for you to see them. Now, give me the laptop.” Sherlock reaches out a hand across the table. John is certain that if he doesn’t concede Sherlock will resort to actually leaping across the table if he has to.

“Don’t lie to me, you are freaked out, you nearly jumped out of your skin when I noticed them yesterday! Why?”

Sherlock tries to feint to the side, John easily matches him. Sherlock narrows his eyes, hands now gripping the back of a chair painfully tight.

“Why do you _care_ so much?” Sherlock counters.

 _I don_ _’_ _t know, maybe I shouldn_ _’_ _t care anymore, I just do you infuriating bastard._ John isn’t entirely sure now why he’s wasting his effort with this; whether it’s pride, genuine concern, or a desire for Sherlock to just...let him take control. Could be all three, maybe he’s trying to prove something, god knows what. All John knows is that he needs to do this, even if Sherlock is right and there’s not much John can do for the scarring anyway.

While John is thinking this, Sherlock is watching him intently. John notices his eyes flick towards the spread wings behind John’s back, Sherlock’s expression morphs from one of tight annoyance to puzzlement.

It takes Sherlock only a few seconds to straighten out of his threatening crouch and reach for the bottom of his t-shirt; face carefully blank.

John blinks. _That...was easier than I thought it would be._ A bit surprised by Sherlock’s concession, Johns brow creases and he watches Sherlock takes his arms out of the sleeves and allow the shirt to gently fall backwards; wings sliding smoothly through the holes Sherlock made.

Still staring at each other, John replaces the laptop back on the table; hand pulling away slowly, his eyes linger on Sherlock shirtless, wings spread wide much like Johns. Even now John can admit Sherlock is an attractive man, you can still be an arsehole and be good-looking, but right at this moment...John’s attention is almost enraptured, _why can_ _’_ _t I stop staring?_ John shakes himself out of his gaze. _Sleep can do funny things to you._

Sherlock crosses his arms in front of him and raises an eyebrow in John’s direction.

“Shall we get this over with? _Quickly._ ” Sherlock is very much aggravated, but he moves towards John and hesitates for a brief second before turning around and presenting John with his back.

John allows himself the shock of Sherlock being accommodating for once, but then he feels his stomach clench at the sight before him.

_Oh...god._

He’d obviously seen part of the scars before, but even Sherlock’s wings cannot cover the extent of the damage. They’re...everywhere. Old, recent, jagged, circular and starburst shaped, so many wounds on that marble skin makes John feel sick. The most recent ones are the several he noted before that look like they happened as the result of...being whipped over a long, long period of time; angry white marks with tinges of red lines criss-crossing all over his back. Several of them probably should’ve had stitches but never got any. John feels angry, angry at whoever did this to Sherlock, sick that he wasn’t there to protect or endure it with him. Sherlock is right, there’s not much he can do, but he’ll do what he can. At least they aren’t glowing, dripping red like in his nightmare.

“John?” Sherlock sounds unsure now, his head turned a bit awkwardly in John’s direction though not looking directly at him.

“Sorry, I...sorry.” He finds himself meaning it, in more ways than one. Now Sherlock looks at him, faint hints of surprise on his features. John taps down his pointless urge to hunt down whoever dared hurt Sherlock like this and pulls out a chair for Sherlock to sit on. “Sit.” His voice comes out hoarse and he nods towards the chair.

Sherlock complies, straddling the chair with his crossed arms resting along the back, his marred canvas of scars facing John.

John pushes the sleeves of his robe up to his elbows, opens up the kit and proceeds with settling on what he’ll need for Sherlock. The wounds are far too healed for antiseptic or antibiotic cream to be of much use, but he can help the scars themselves heal at least. All this is very basic stuff for a doctor, but it’s the least he can do.

He takes out an antiseptic wipe, purely to make sure the area is clean of all dirt and removes it from the packaging.

Sherlock is very still as John carefully brushes the wipe over his scars, mindful of avoiding the wings; which have curled forward and away from John, allowing him better access to Sherlock’s back.

“How did this happen?” John finds himself asking, his force far more calm than he’s actually feeling.

Sherlock tenses for a moment and John glances up to the back of that dark, curly haired head.

“It doesn’t matter now.” Sherlock replies.

John pauses and the only sound in the kitchen is the symbiosis of their breathing.

“It matters to _me._ ” John discards the wipe and waits a moment for the moisture on Sherlock’s back to dry.

“Why?” Sherlock asks, genuinely curious.

John’s cerulean wings flap in anger.

Why _does_ he need to know? Really? John isn’t sure how to answer that without giving away feelings he’s not ready (unsure whether he’ll ever be) to express to Sherlock.

At the moment though, what is bothering John is the blasé attitude with which Sherlock is treating the scars, the genuine surprise at the care John shows towards them as if...as if Sherlock truly didn’t realize anyone _would_ care.

John never really thought much on it before, but the arrogant, self-proclaimed sociopathic Sherlock Holmes has such a low opinion of himself that he can’t really comprehend why anyone would care for anything about him, other than his genius mind and what it can do.

John sighs.

“Because even though I am still furious and hurt by what you did, I happen to care about what happened to you.” That at least is the truth.

John can just imagine the perplexity on Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock doesn’t say anything. John frowns and reaches for the cream. He uncaps the top and rubs a moderate amount between his hands to warm it up.

Sherlock twitches slightly at the feeling of the lukewarm cream on his skin, still keeping perfectly still. John can almost be called reverent in the way he is expertly applying the scar cream to each of Sherlock’s marks. Unpleasant shivers course through his body as he becomes intimately familiar with Sherlock’s scars, imagining how they could’ve happened; whipping, stabbing, a bullet wound even. Most of them not torture, but rather the markings of a man deep in the trenches with no exit.

The comparison makes John feel shockingly guilty at how he initially reacted upon first seeing Sherlock yesterday, justified or not. John is finding it much easier to control whatever anger he feels and focus completely on the task at hand.

A few moments pass, John is almost done when Sherlock finally speaks.

“I was undercover in Serbia several months ago, tracking one of the last primary commanders in Moriarty’s empire when I was captured by a group of his underlings. The man turned out to be much more intelligent than I had originally thought, led me into a trap. He didn’t know exactly who I was of course, so I suppose not that intelligent, or else I doubt I’d be alive right now.” Sherlock begins with a voice of surprising steadiness.

John has to take a deep calming breath at that last part. He doesn’t say anything though, just continues with his work and remains silent.

“I’m sure you’ve figured out what they used to...encourage my capitulation. They wanted to know why I was after their commander and who I was, several days passed before I was rescued.” A darker tone enters his voice when he mentions being rescued. “It was hardly my first unfortunate capture during those years, but it was...grueling. I doubt my deductions on their unfortunate lives helped me, but it kept my mind distracted at least.” His shoulders tense and his wings appear to clench, Sherlock’s voice fades away as he finishes speaking.

John laughs bitterly. “You just...had to aggravate them didn’t you? Couldn’t keep your bloody mouth shut.” His fist clenches and rests on Sherlock’s skin, right next to a particularly long scar in the middle of his back. “You’re such an idiot.”

Sherlock hums noncommittally.

John is horrified to realize there are tears forming in his eyes. His entire body and face tenses as he tries to control himself.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice has gone quiet.

It is then that John notices he has his forehead resting on Sherlock’s back also; giving into the reassurance of Sherlock [i] _here[/i]_ , [i] _alive[/i]_. John’s eyes widen and he rapidly backs away.

Sherlock turns around in his chair. “Are you...alright?” He asks with concern.

John doesn’t think he’s ever heard him sound so sincere before. John angrily wipes at his red eyes, ashamed and embarrassed at his emotional weakness in front of Sherlock of all people. _You were a soldier, control yourself John Watson._

John once again laughs bitterly, putting away the contents of the kit with angry movements.

“Am I alright? Am I alright? No I’m not bloody _alright_. This happened to you, just everything that’s happened and I...you were... _fuck._ ” John can’t get his words straight and if he’s going to lose it he will _not_ do it in front of Sherlock.

He notices Sherlock quickly stand up from the chair, eyes darting worriedly all over John; his wings seem to want to reach towards him.

There is a painful tension in the air that neither is entirely sure where it’s coming from.

John snaps the kit shut, grips it tightly and moves to exit the kitchen as quickly as possible. _This was a horrible idea, stupid, stupid_ –

John’s frantic thoughts are stopped at the touch of long fingers encompassing his arm; preventing him from leaving.

“Let me go Sherlock. _Now._ ” John sounds almost angry.

“I’m sorry John. I wish I knew how to...” Sherlock growls in frustration, his grip on Johns arm remains firm.

John sighs.

“I know.” John says with a pained echo.

The grip on his arm slackens and John moves again to exit the kitchen. He reaches the doorway before he hears the rumbling sounds of Sherlock’s rough baritone.

“Will you ever forgive me?”

John stops. Yesterday, John might’ve immediately said no, amazing how much can change in one day. Seeing what Sherlock truly went through, getting just a snippet of it, really puts some things into perspective.

He turns around, not looking at Sherlock, and points to the tube of cream he used; which he left on the table.

“I doubt you’ll remember to use that every day, especially with the case, but when you do, please use it. It’ll help with the condition of your scars.” John says in lieu of an answer to Sherlock’s question.

It’s not a yes, but it’s not a no either. What it is, is hope.

John finally looks up at Sherlock and their eyes meet. Sherlock gives John a capitulating nod before turning around and returning to his work.

_Right, moving on._

John exits the kitchen for good this time. That feeling of tingling irritation, which had been gone in Sherlock’s presence returns once they are no longer in the same room.

And when John Watson sleeps, it is for once, free of nightmares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in chapter-ing, I'll be posting another later today to compensate! :3


	8. My head's under water, but I'm breathing fine

Chapter 7

 

John may not have had a nightmare when he went back to bed, but he did dream. It was a simple dream, a happy one for once.

_It involved springtime at the cottage; the garden was full with a menagerie of purple, yellow and pink flowers. Bushes of roses, multiple flowerbeds of every conceivable colour, the entire masterpiece was bordered with a waste height hedge. Towards the farthest corner of the garden there were four beehives. The sweet smell of the flowers, and gentle humming sound of the bees combined with the warmth of the sunburst sky filled John with such peace and contentment that he couldn_ _’_ _t help but smile._

_There was a little boy also, no more than four years old, his image was hazy and John couldn_ _’_ _t quite make him out, but he was standing far away from John; watching the bees with rapt fascination. The boy reached out a hand to try and swipe a passing bee; he succeeded, only to get stung. He fell onto his behind and started crying. Just then, an older woman appeared from behind an apple blossom tree, running towards the little boy; she had gorgeous golden wings flowing out from her back. Her image, unlike the boy, wasn_ _’_ _t hazy. And she was beautiful._

_She reached the crying child with a sad smile on her face and kneeled down onto the dewy morning grass._

_“_ _It stung me!_ _”_ _The child cried._

_The woman lifted the little boys hand with a certain caring delicacy that made John_ _’_ _s heart ache._

_“_ _Of course he did boo, you frightened him. Do you like being frightened?_ _”_ _The woman asked, very gently. She had a fanny pack around her waist and she pulled out a little bottle of unidentifiable liquid._

_The little boy sniffled and shook his head._

_"_ _No...But I, I wanted to touch him. He looked all fuzzy._ _”_ _The boy looked very solemn; lingering tears at the corner of his eyes._

_“_ _Bees are incredibly sensitive to their environment, just like we are. When startled, or are attacked, they instinctively defend themselves. One must treat them with patience, be still and calm, and they will come to you._ _”_ _The woman said all this while applying an ointment of some sort to the boy_ _’_ _s hand._

_The boy nodded._

_The older woman smiled and picked the boy up lovingly in her arms; resting him upon her hip._

_“_ _Now, what do I always say boo?_ _”_ _The woman poked the little boy in the stomach and he giggled._

_“_ _You attract more flies with honey than vinegar._ _”_ _The little boy recited, clearly very proud of himself._

_“_ _Exactly my little one._ _”_ _The woman kissed the child on the nose and turned away from the bees._ _“_ _Let_ _’_ _s go inside now Billy._ _”_

_They were oblivious to John_ _’_ _s presence, obviously since it was a dream. And so they passed by John without a glance, when they reached a door John recognized as the back door of the cottage, the little boy looked back and for a brief moment...the little boy was no longer a hazy image and their eyes connected for a millisecond before the dream dissolved._

That is when John woke. He didn’t have time to ponder the dream much, other than it felt different than any dream he’d ever had in the past, before he was hit with a headache.

John never bothered to put away the kit last night (or this morning, depending on how you look at it), instead leaving it on his nightstand beside his clock before collapsing with sudden exhaustion.

Groaning, John had reached over and took some paracetamol before promptly collapsing once more on the bed. Pleasant dream or not, it wouldn’t be the first time John woke up with a headache after a horrible night’s sleep.

That was half an hour ago.

John is still waiting for the pills to take effect (keeping his eyes closed and rubbing circular motions into his temples while silently cursing his bloody biology for giving him a headache) when he hears a loud bang and the sound of something breaking coming from downstairs.

What the hell –

“THERE IS _NOTHING!_ ” Definitely Sherlock. John has heard that particular scream of frustration before. “ _THIS MAKES NO SENSE! THERE MUST BE SOMETHING!_ ” Sherlock screams again, clearly enraged about something.

John jumps out of bed quickly, wincing at the pain in his head, and not bothering to put on a robe; opting instead to slide on a pair of comfortable sleep pants over his boxers before rushing downstairs.

John hopes its nothing, past experience tells him it likely isn’t anything actually serious, but these aren’t ordinary circumstances, things are different and for all John knows it could be anything.

With a pounding heart, John rushes to the open door of the kitchen. He is greeted by the sight of Greg and Dr James ( _what is he doing here?_ ) attempting to pacify an irate Sherlock. Irate may be putting it mildly. Sherlock is currently pacing the length of the kitchen, wings flopping and flailing everywhere, hands clinging to his hair painfully tight, his lips are open, teeth gritted together with heavy, broken breaths pushing through his mouth. The table is chaos; paper, broken slides, and bags of evidence are littered everywhere. John notices one end of the table looks perfectly clean and there is pile of aforementioned items scattered on the floor as if someone swiped them off the table in anger.

_What the hell is going on?_

“Sherlock, calm down-” Greg begins to say.

“BE QUIET!” Sherlock yells. “I can’t _think._ GET OUT! _I need to think._ ”

“Sherlock you will find whatever is you’re looking for, you always have eventually.” Dr James speaks with a raised yet confident tone of voice.

“Eventually! Eventually! _Eventually!_ ”Sherlock is chanting the word in a high-pitched mocking voice that is in some ways more unsettling than Sherlock yelling. He swirls around and gets right into Dr James’ face, danger written in the tense lines of his mouth and the pinned expression of his eyes. “ _Eventually could be too late!_ ” Sherlock seethes.

The older man sighs deeply and reaches out to Sherlock. The latter man flinches away and grips the sides of his head once more.

“Sherlock-” Greg tries again.

“OH GOD! Will you just _SHUT UP!_ And get _OUT!_ ” Sherlock roars. “ _You_ -”

“Sherlock! What’s going on?” John interrupts Sherlock with his own raised voice, speaking directly to him; knowing this is the best way to get his attention.

All three heads swivel to face John standing in the doorway.

Greg heaves a sigh of relief at the sight of John. “Oh John thank god! I know things are a bit...tense between you and Sherlock now, but can you _please_ talk to him? I need some air.” He walks up to John and lays a comforting hand on his shoulder. Greg gives him a wry smile before fixing Sherlock with a determined look. John, headache still brewing menacingly, nods. Without further word, Greg exits the kitchen.

Sherlock has resumed his frantic pacing and angry muttering. Dr James is watching him with a sorrowful eye and an indecipherable expression. He breathes in deeply and turns to face John.

John is watching the entire scene with a frown, but his expression relaxes minutely as Dr James approaches him with warmth in his eyes; for the first time John notices he is wearing a white fluffy jumper that even John would never consider wearing, yet in a bizarre way it suits the man standing before him.

“I may have been absent from his life for a long time, but in this regard, it seems very little has changed.” That sorrow returns to his eyes and he gives John a sad look.

John just feels confused.

“What do you mean?” John asks, glancing at Sherlock.

Dr James sighs.

“For a long time, I know others have seen him as cold, cruel and nothing else. I know him though, and it only seems that way because when he does let himself feel, it overwhelms him because he feels so deeply. Sherlock has learned the hard way how vulnerable loving someone makes you. He does feel John; he just will pretend otherwise to protect himself.”

Not for the first time John wonders who this man really is and how he knows Sherlock so intimately. All he is aware of is that he was friends with his parents and someone named Genie, but Sherlock prevented Dr James from speaking anymore on the subject.

Regardless, John isn’t so surprised by that insight. It makes a funny sort of sense, still, the part of John that is hurt and angry balks at the idea that Sherlock Holmes really does care as much as this man, whom John only just met yesterday, is implying. If he did, wouldn’t Sherlock have found a different way to take down Moriarty? ...That thought is less clear to him than it was yesterday.

“Why are you telling me this now?” John responds with some bemusement, his eyes flicking over to Sherlock (still pacing in agitation) every once in a while.

Dr James raises an eyebrow.

“I don’t know you laddie, but I know Sherlock well enough to recognize when someone is important to him. Whether you believe it or not, you are one of those people and I worry about him being here while all this is going on.” James runs a tired hand through his elderly beard. “He doesn’t have very many people in his life he genuinely cares about, I know you’re still angry and filled with doubt right now, but please, I beg you to put that aside and be there for him in a way I cannot.” The older man is quiet and insistent, looking at him with those deep, intense golden eyes.

John is starting to fill a bit ill with the swell of emotions he’s feeling. _The headache doesn_ _’_ _t help either._

Can he do what Dr James is asking?

“I-”

“ _Promise_ me young man.”

John suddenly finds himself with a short and stubby finger being pointed at his face. Whatever the chaos his state of emotions regarding Sherlock, John cannot help but admire this man’s obvious care and loyalty to the Detective; a man who most of society shuns as a human being and yet praise him for his brain one day and hate him for it the next, he really does inspire loyalty in the most interesting people.

John feels both baffled by and endeared to this charming little man even more.

Can John genuinely make that promise?

He is about to answer when Sherlock suddenly flings a dirty plate across the kitchen where it shatters into pieces against the opposite wall.

“Bloody hell.” John mutters.

_What is going on? I_ _’_ _ve never seen him quite like this before._

“Perhaps I’ll leave you with him for now, tell Sherlock when he’s...done, that I brought over a box of my old clothes for you two.” Dr James looks pointedly to a box awkwardly shoved underneath the kitchen table.

“Why-” _Oh._ John stops the question when he realizes James must be referring to their newly forming wings. “Thank-you Dr James.” John says with a smile, though it is forced since Sherlock’s anxiety is starting to make John feel even more on edge.

James scoffs.

“Oh John my dear boy, call me Marcus. And it is no problem, they might not be the style you hip youngsters are used to, but they’ve been gathering dust for far too long and I figured with this case you wouldn’t really have time to get yourselves new clothing.” Dr James –Marcus, tips his head with an answering grin in John’s direction.

John is sure he has never been called a young hipster in his entire life.

He claps Marcus good-naturedly on his shoulder.

“We very much appreciate it.”

Marcus nods and, with a last fleeting look of worry in Sherlock’s direction, he leaves.

Before John can say anything to Sherlock he notices Marcus poke his head back into the kitchen.

“Oh, and John?”

Marcus gestures at him with a come-hither finger. John’s brow creases but he walks up to the older man.

“Yes?”

“Give him a hug, as soon as possible.”

_...What?_ John’s eyes widen.

He looks at Marcus with a puzzled expression, _is the man joking?_ No, he looks entirely serious.

Hug Sherlock Holmes...maybe it says something not so good about his life that John finds the idea more abnormal than the possibility of finding decaying toes in his morning tea.

“Why?” The word comes out sounding squeakier than he intended. John inwardly curses himself.

“Just do it.” Marcus looks at Sherlock and back to John. “Soon.”

He leaves before John can protest.

“Ugh, I thought he would _never_ leave.” Sherlock groans and John hears what sounds like papers rustling.

John turns and takes a cautious step towards Sherlock; the latter man is currently rifling through the police reports and photos on the table. “You go too. I can’t afford to have any _stupid_ in the room.” Sherlock growls. “It isn’t coalescing like it should be; there is nothing that clearly identifies, why, why isn’t there –OH GOD!” Sherlock bellows out the last two words before swiping even more off the table and onto the floor.

Sherlock is a man crazed.

John jumps backwards to avoid the hurricane of paper.

“Jesus Christ Sherlock!” John mutters as a note pad manages to hit him in the face.

John has always found any possibly stinging words of Sherlock easier to handle when Sherlock is angry, rather than cold and calculating. So in that regard, it isn’t too difficult for John to push past Sherlock essentially calling him stupid and ignore it.

“It’s not my fault that you are _in the way_. Nothing new there. Now GO!” Sherlock sneers cruelly, finally facing John for the first time since the others left.

John clenches his fists and jaw. _Breathe, just breathe._

“Tell me what’s happened? Why are you so angry?” John asks in the calmest tone he can manage even though his patience is close to dissolving.

Sherlock ignores him, he is staring at a photograph with laser intensity; hands clenched even tighter than Johns on either side of it, his hair is wild in disarray, he’s still wearing the same clothes from yesterday and they appear to be have been ripped by Sherlock’s hands clenching the fabric too tight. His eyes are the most worrisome, Sherlock’s head is slightly hung but John still notices the vengeful fire burning within them.

“Sherlock, you’re scaring me...”

John moves so he is on the opposite side of the table directly across from Sherlock.

That head of rich, night coloured curls lifts up and those fiery eyes focus on John.

“You’re still here.” It isn’t a question, nor is it accusatory, contrary to the look in his eyes Sherlock’s statement is spoken with a kind of awe.

John is momentarily stunned by the abrupt change in Sherlock’s voice, but he recovers quickly and makes sure his gaze is perfectly level with Sherlocks.

“Of course I am.” _You have pretty much destroyed the bloody kitchen and made a right mess of it while looking like you were going to explode at any moment._ “Now, please tell me, _what_ is going on?” John really doesn’t want to set Sherlock off again, for the sake of his persistent headache if nothing else, but he really wants to know what triggered Sherlock into this state.

Sherlock gives a sigh of resignation, head almost bowed in defeat. John hates seeing that on him, he doesn’t even think he’s seen it before...it feels unnatural.

“I can’t see it.”

“Can’t see what?” John urges.

“It! IT! I have been going over everything all night, polices reports that look like they were written by adolescents - there are no apparent witnesses, crime scene photos, other than his clothing there no personal effects upon Coffer’s person –no surprise there –and I have examined them myself thoroughly for trace materials that could lead to where he’s been, but there was nothing of significance that one could not find outside their front door! The murderer was very careful in their clean up and placement of the body, almost paranoid, looking at the original crime scene is pointless due to the heavy rain yesterday and those bloody fools of a police force didn’t bother to take photos of the area surrounding the crime scene! IDIOTS!” Sherlock shouts out the last word and bangs his fists on the table.

Ok, so the case isn’t going well so far, Sherlock hasn’t found what he’s looking for...ok, John can get that, but –

“There’s something! There has to be! There is _something_ right in front of my eyes, I’m missing it, it’s here I know it and I can’t...I can’t see it! It has to be there! I will not accept that there is _nothing!_ I cannot fail, there has to be something and I’m just not able to- _”_   Sherlock cuts himself off as he starts to pace again, his breathing is nearing hyperventilation.

Afraid that Sherlock might work himself into a real panic, John quickly moves around the table to block Sherlock from pacing. Sherlock stops but still looks very angry.

“Get _out_ of my way.” Sherlock spits.

John plants his feet firmly and crosses his arms.

“No.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes.

“John-”

“No, you’re being ridiculous, I’m not moving or going anywhere until you sit down and we talk this out. And you can forgo the puppy eyes, they don’t work on me.” John is giving Sherlock a look he hasn’t used since his days in the army.

It appears to work. Sherlock, though still clearly on the brink of pacing a hole in the tile, sits down with a hard thud on one of the kitchen chairs. He has the tips of his fingers pressing firmly into his temples and his eyes are closed tightly. He appears to be searching his mind palace for something.

John nods and sits down opposite Sherlock.

“Alright. Sherlock you are obviously past the point of burn out. When did you last sleep?” Sherlock ignores him. “Maybe you’re having trouble putting everything together because your body is shutting down and needs to recharge, even you need sleep once in a-”

“Oh save me from your mollycoddling! I do _not_ need sleep, I _cannot_ afford to sleep! The case takes priority over my transports comfort.” Sherlock’s tone is low and dangerous, his entire body is vibrating.

_Wow, this is familiar._

“Sleep isn’t a comfort Sherlock it’s a necessity! You said yourself you’re having trouble seeing whatever it is you’re looking for. Maybe some time away from it all will allow you a fresh perspective.”

“THERE IS NO TIME!” Sherlock roars; hands trembling. John frowns. _What_ _’_ _s that supposed to mean?_ _He sounds...scared, does he have a time limit for some reason or what?_ “There’s something, something, there has to be something, why can’t I...” Sherlock mutters. “My mind can’t fail me now, not now...”

John’s heart is pounding and he wavers, seeing Sherlock this unhinged has John floundering for a solution.

Without even thinking about it, John reaches out and grabs one of Sherlock’s hand. The two of them suddenly freeze.

John looks at what he did with shock. It was...more than just instinct, _what the hell?  
_

Sherlock’s expression has melted into a look John recognizes very well, and it causes a deep painful ache in John to throb at the sight of it.

Sherlock has figured something out.

John feels an electric tingling rushing through the connection between his hand and Sherlock’s wrist that feels like...relief. John then notices that both his and Sherlock’s wings and... _glowing?_

What –oh. _Oh._

For some reason John feels panic setting in, he doesn’t know where it’s coming from but it’s similar to the very first time John got into his first real combat scenario in Afghanistan, he has the basic knowledge of what to do but no experience and is, admittedly, afraid. _Why am I afraid now though? The idea of bonding with a deep soul mate has never scared him before, is it because it_ _’_ _s Sherlock? Am I afraid because there is still so much to be mended that might never fully heal and I don_ _’_ _t know if I_ _’_ _m ready for this kind of bond with him? After everything he_ _’_ _s done..._ John laughs inwardly at himself; _I don_ _’_ _t have a bloody choice, do I?_

John can’t believe he didn’t recognize this before. He vaguely recalls telling himself that Sherlock and he would need to talk about this, but for whatever reason he never really let himself go into the details of what this bond meant and what would need to happen.

Suddenly, Marcus’s suggestion to hug Sherlock soon makes sense.

When a deep soul bond happens between adults, it takes roughly a day for the wings to grow enough, since it is the physical manifestation of a soul opening itself up to a new connection within the deepest part it takes time to do so, for a deep soul mate bond to be sealed. Only then can wings mature fully, and only then can whatever the abilities and consequences of the bond manifest to their full potential. If two people do not seal when the time has come, there will be physical pain which will only increase until the bond is complete (which explains John’s increasingly painful headache, and why it felt somewhat dulled when he grabbed Sherlock) and in some individuals their functioning will begin to cease altogether, including their ability to think and process information (which could also potentially explain Sherlock’s difficulties, maybe).

The way to seal the bond is simple. The two soul mates bodies and wings must completely embrace and touch one another, nudity –full or partial –isn’t necessary and only done out of choice. And when it does happen, in this situation it is not something sexual, depending on the people involved, that connection usually comes later. Plainly put, Sherlock and John must hug one another with no space between them and their wings will automatically do the rest. The act itself is common enough and may seem underwhelming, but it is the most traditional and easiest way for the wings to overlap each other, the real bonding is happening with the souls themselves. And that cannot be seen. How the sealing of the bond feels is different to each pairing, some have claimed it is like burning in fire without the pain, with others it is like seeing an old friend after many years of being apart, it’s different for all.

All this is going through the heads of both Sherlock and John as they remain frozen in their positions.

“Um....” John really doesn’t know what to say.

“Stupid, _stupid_ , I should’ve seen this earlier.”

“Well, I think your mind was being impaired.”

Sherlock hums in mild consideration, a crease forming between his brows. It melts away as Sherlock gazes at John still holding his wrist firmly. A part of John is telling him to let go and run ( _what are you doing?_ ), however a much larger part is urging him to complete the bond. John would be lying if he said he didn’t feel like this was happening against his will, but he would also be lying if he said that a part of him wasn’t expecting it even when he thought it would never happen.

John Watson is afraid of very few things, losing those he loves and losing his ability to heat up tea whenever he wishes are two of them, until this moment he never thought he would be afraid of deep soul bonding. It is natural; it is your soul speaking for you when your mind can’t. That is what he’s always been told, and now that he’s here, especially considering the circumstances surrounding all this...it is just a lot to take in.

Sherlock suddenly pulls his arm away from John and Johns falls unceremoniously to the table. Their wings cease glowing when that happens. He stands up swiftly, removes his shirt (John finds himself unable to look away) and moves around to John’s side of the table, a determined look in his eye. Sherlock falters however a few feet from John, a dawning look of vulnerability and panic forcing their way past that stony facade he so often keeps up.

_He_ _’_ _s afraid too._

No matter the circumstances, John knows he has to be the brave one here. So he stands and walks up to Sherlock. John can do this and weather it as best he can, he has heard that during the sealing of a bond the wings swell to nearly twice their mature size before dying down to their normal one, because of this they can’t really do it in the small kitchen.

John feels a sense of soldier’s eye-of-the-storm calm wash over him and he is immensely grateful for that. He looks out the window and notices it is a sunny day for once.

Ok then.

“Right, so, shall we?” John may have to be the brave one, but that doesn’t preclude him from feeling a bit awkward about the whole thing.

Sherlock furrows his brow and looks to where John is gesturing with his head; outside.

Sherlock nods and walks towards the door, sliding it open and walking out in less than a few seconds.

John doesn’t move for a few seconds, hesitating and opting to breathe deeply instead.

When he hears a knock on the window, John turns to see Sherlock looking expectant. John can’t tell if he’s just anxious to get it over with or just anxious...nothing has been living up to his expectations in regards to Sherlock ever since he returned yesterday – _god, was it really only yesterday?_

“Come on John!” Sherlock calls out, knocking again.

“I’m coming!” _Impatient bugger. You_ _’_ _re really in it deep now Watson._

John puts on a brave face and walks towards the back door. He exits to find Sherlock standing only a few feet away, facing towards the far corner where John remembers seeing the beehives in his dream.

He shakes off the memory and moves to stand in front of Sherlock.

It may be sunny out, but it is still chilly and both Sherlock and John are shirtless; goose-pimples bubbling on their skin.

Sherlock looks lost in thought, eyes inexplicably focused on that far corner.

“Sherlock?”

The man appears to break himself out of it at the sound of John’s voice and focuses his attention on the doctor.

John doesn’t say anything when Sherlock looks at him; it doesn’t escape John’s notice that Sherlock is very obviously avoiding looking at his chest. Those stormy eyes move up to his wings and back down to John’s face. John is watching him carefully all the while.

He notices the minute changes to Sherlock’s face that indicate his trepidation and unease, of what exactly John doesn’t know but he also knows that the only way he can even tell Sherlock is feeling those things is because John knows the man so well. He thinks he does.

A stranger would dismiss Sherlock’s expression as being rigid, when it is anything but.

Sherlock looks away.

_Be the brave one. Get this done. Deal with everything else later._

John reaches out without hesitation and touches Sherlock’s shoulders. The effect is immediate. Sherlock gasps and John feels a strong tingling sensation in his wings.

Sherlock’s wings are beginning to glow again; John doesn’t have to look at his own to know they are too. The oddity of touching the man shirtless is pushed aside for the time being.

Sherlock isn’t moving. John makes a decision to end the awkward tension and just go for it.

He wraps his arms around Sherlock and barely a second later Sherlock does the same without thinking.

This time they both gasp.

Skin to skin.

Warmth caresses warmth.

Soft sculpted feathers reach toward each other in a, literal, feather light kiss.

The feeling of being embraced by each other’s arms, John’s muscular shorter ones and Sherlock’s long and smooth, and encompassed by the others wings is...beyond words.

 

Sherlock on the other hand knows a perfect word to describe this experience; _John_. Not an adjective, but for Sherlock...it describes this feeling perfectly. It is like being washed in crystal clear water, this feeling of illumination and mist is cleansing his mind palace of cobwebs and uncertainty, his heart is throbbing in his chest; he can hear John’s echoing his own rhythm flawlessly and the sound is the most beautiful music to his ears.

_I didn_ _’_ _t want this. How could I not have wanted it? My mind has never been so clear before. I still don_ _’_ _t want this. It is a weakness...then why do I feel...strong? John._

 

In this state, they are both stripped of insecurities and doubts, the new connection their souls are forming wrapping them around so tight neither one has ever felt safer in their lives.

_For the first time in years I feel free. The grief, the pain...where did it go? Why can_ _’_ _t I feel it anymore? Shut up John; just enjoy this feeling while it lasts. It is incredible. All my wounds are non existent...Sherlock, the one man who has given me more wounds in both the literal and figurative sense is the same man to wash them clean._

The feelings and energies surge in a shower of electricity and light and dissolve all but one word and feeling from the minds, hearts and souls of both Sherlock and John.

_Love._

 

Their eyes are closed so they are blind to the picture they are presenting to the world, but for Greg and Marcus, on their way back from a walk, they’ve paused and are watching the two men; wings glowing in colours of blue, green and gold, arms enveloping each other with incredible tightness, their heads are tucked gently yet firmly onto the shoulders of the other.

They look...happy.

_It_ _’_ _s about time_ , Greg thinks to himself with a smile.

 

Marcus on the other hand feels a deep sorrow that never really goes away chime inside him at the sight; his old eyes, normally so jovial, glaze over at the memory of what he has lost.

 

This moment of nothing but joy and happiness will not last, but for this moment it feels like forever.

The sealing of the bond is starting fade, before the thoughts and memories come rushing back to Sherlock and John, bringing with them unresolved feelings and memories and other realities; they speak a few quiet words to each other.

“I missed you so much.” John breathes out in a pained sob against the skin of Sherlock’s neck.

“And I you John Watson.”


	9. You've got my head spinning, no kidding, I can't pin you down

Chapter 8

 

It is a romanticized notion that when two people make a deep soul mate bond everything will be alright between them, past, present or future pains, nothing will prevent them from being together whenever possible and happy always.

What is true is that there is a deeper understanding, soul magic abilities depending on what they are can influence the relationship also, a language so to speak that exists only between the two people, an urge to be as close as possible. Of course, not everyone follows the same path and for some, acceptance of the bond, especially if the two have already known each other for some time before hand (long enough for potential obstacles to form), takes time and past hurt preclude a person from fully embracing the connection. Most, if not all, get there eventually, their soul biology makes that a near unavoidable inevitability.

It doesn’t mean a person can’t be a stubborn arse about it.

John doesn’t know what he was expecting or hoping for when Sherlock and he sealed their bond. Honestly, he doesn’t believe he was necessarily hoping for anything. As for expecting, he’s heard firsthand accounts and read stories about what it feels like after a bond is made. After having known each other for so long, including that painful two year gap, John was admittedly uneasy about how he might feel after they had to inescapably seal the bond. Would he automatically forgive Sherlock? Would everything he’s done/doing no longer matter? Would he...feel differently about Sherlock? That made him uneasy. He can almost feel his ex-therapist echoing back ‘ _why does it make you this uneasy? What are you hiding?'_ or remember her saying ‘ _there_ _’_ _s stuff you wanted to say, but didn_ _’_ _t say it, say it now_ _’_...John has kept a tight lid on where those thoughts lead for so long he isn’t sure he wants to or can open the lid. He’s been denying they even exist to himself for so long that at times he can almost believe they’re non-existent. And after what Sherlock did, how can he allow himself to acknowledge those thoughts at all? Yet...during the bonding he just knew, his _soul_ knew – _knows_ the depth of how Sherlock Holmes has truly altered John in ways he’ll likely never fully realize, during the bonding he had no choice but to acknowledge everything he felt, nothing was holding him back, he could see it all moving through him as his soul bonded with Sherlock’s own, and if he concentrated...he could _see_ Sherlock’s soul, a glowing beacon that resonated with such beauty John wanted to cry. John doesn’t believe he’ll witness anything so wondrous in this life ever again.

These thoughts and more wash through John in a crushing wave, the feeling of being blissfully clear is gone, after he feels the sealing of the bond recede and his emotions, pains and thoughts re-enter before settling to where they were much like before this happened. There is one change though, that lid he fought to keep closed for so long has vanished, vestiges of John’s denial ( _not gay, not gay, not gay_ ) are fighting a losing battle with the seal the bonding has (ironically) broken. Sherlock and John are left standing exactly as they were during the process; breathing heavily, almost panting, eyes now wide open, still clinging to each other, and shaky after the trauma of what just happened. Their wings now fall angelic to their ankles, the colours of the feathers even more vibrant and varied than before.

Any physical or mental pain they felt before as the result of the bond sealing being postponed is gone.

John can hear, and feel, the frantic beating of Sherlock’s heart much more strongly than he could before. There is also a faint humming in the back of his mind that wasn’t there before, curious, John mentally pokes at it and the humming slowly morphs into words.

_...Unacceptable, impossible, this wasn_ _’_ _t supposed to happen, the truth is inescapable, and how could I not have seen it before? Stupid, stupid! I have to go, why can_ _’_ _t I move? Why don_ _’_ _t I want to move, why do I want to tell him? It isn_ _’_ _t important, will only serve as further distraction and I, I find myself afraid, I hate the feeling, fear is a pointless emotion much like..._

The thoughts are disjointed and moving at incredible speed. John startles a little when he realizes he’s hearing Sherlock’s thoughts. At least some form of telepathy must be a side-effect of their bond.

It is bizarrely...fascinating. John wonders if he should be more worried about being able to hear even some of the thinking process of Sherlock Holmes and what it says about him that he isn’t.

_Sherlock?_ John hesitantly thinks, not sure if he’s doing this telepathy thing right.

The thoughts suddenly cease and John feels Sherlock stiffen in his arms.

Sherlock lets his arms fall and he backs away with long steps, keeping a wide distance between him and John; his eyes are wide and childlike in the helplessness they exude.

Something about Sherlock’s demeanour has John feeling worried in a way he hasn’t felt since he saw Sherlock standing on the ledge at St Bart’s. Three words coalesce in his mind as the vision of Sherlock falling, _falling_ , overwhelms his heart and mind and John feels the pain he felt at the sight amplify tenfold.

John gulps, hands shaking, and takes a cautious step forward.

“Sherlock-” John repeats, out loud, suddenly feeling frantic.

Sherlock’s face abruptly hardens, all emotion visibly cut off, and his legs tense. Before John can wonder why he is gawping and following the sight of Sherlock _flying_ , wings stretched completely with sunlight reflecting off the metallic sheen of the feathers, over his head and landing with surprising grace several feet away.

Flying appears to be on the list then, but why is he...

John walks forward.

_Leave. Me. Alone._

The baritone words pound loudly, painfully, in Johns head. He automatically stops moving.

_Sherlock!_ John thinks right back to him.

John tries to not feel angry as he remains frozen on the spot. Sherlock appears to hesitate for a moment, eyes meeting Johns briefly before he vanishes around the corner of the cottage.

In the near distance John hears a door being pulled open roughly and subsequently slammed.

John’s mind is racing, his world turned upside down yet again by the detective, those three words replaying themselves over and over again... _Fuck._ _I_ _’_ _m...I_ _’_ _m in love with Sherlock Holmes, how is this possible?_ He is a man capable of being shockingly cruel, a man for whom boredom is worse than death, a man who didn’t believe in John enough to trust him with the knowledge of his fake death and so let him grieve his loss for two years...somehow the fact that Sherlock is a _man_ and John has never been attracted to a man before doesn’t matter so much to John than it might’ve a while ago.

John hasn’t had a panic attack for a while, but he thinks he just might be having one now.

_How can everything feel so much better and yet so much worse at the same time?_

 

Greg and Marcus have not been noticed by either John or Sherlock; the two of them watch the scene unfold before them.

Greg sighs and rests his palms on his face. _That went well._

“Should’ve known nothing would ever be easy with those two.” Greg mumbles. Greg isn’t the most self aware person in the world, but Sherlock and John take emotional constipation to a whole other level. He’d been hoping the bond would help, it probably will in time.

Marcus makes a noise in agreement. Greg then glances at the man next to him. He’s only just recently met the man, but Greg finds him to be most pleasant and amusing company. Right now he appears deep in thought, a frown set on his face making him seem much older than he already is.

“Sherlock needs to tell John about Genie.” Marcus says sadly, gaze unwavering from the cottage.

Greg’s brow creases.

“You mentioned her yesterday.” Greg turns in Dr James’ direction. Marcus nods, a worn hand touching a vague point on his back. “Who is she?”

Marcus doesn’t answer. He smiles unhappily at Greg and turns to look at him.

“I wouldn’t worry about them.” Is all he says, gesturing to where Sherlock and John once stood; the two of them now appeared to have entered the house.

Greg accepts Marcus’s change in topic and instead snorts at his words.

“I always worry about them. It’s a curse.”

Something in Marcus’s eyes twinkles.

“Aye Greg, it is also blessing.” He chuckles and clasps the DI on the shoulder briefly before walking away towards the front of the cottage; presumably to leave.

Greg raises an eyebrow, _sure as hell doesn_ _’_ _t feel like a blessing most of the time_ , but he can’t help but chuckle as well.

Bracing himself, Greg heads in the opposite direction as Marcus and heads towards the back of the cottage.

There are times Greg is grateful for his many years experience as a DI and a father, makes for dealing with Sherlock and John a bit easier....if the word easy could ever truly be applied to them.

 

***

 

Sherlock is avoiding him. On the plus side, at least the man isn’t destroying the kitchen anymore. On the not so plus side, John has a renewed urge to punch Sherlock, or possibly kiss him, in light of his recent revelation...which he is _still_ trying to wrap his head around and what it could mean on top of everything else.

How long has he...felt this way? Years. Sherlock is brilliant, callous, cruel, childlike, enthusiastic, obsessive, invigorating, easily bored, frustrating, and intelligent. If the past couple of days have taught him anything, Sherlock is far more vulnerable than the seemingly unshakable front Sherlock portrays most of the time.

John can’t say anything, not now, maybe not ever. It’s...its _Sherlock_ , he would balk at the idea of John having feelings for him, and he despises sentiment; valuing logic and his Work above all else. He just doesn’t... _feel_ things that way, doesn’t care to, does he? And John...John can’t seem to help himself. At that moment John is reminded of what Marcus said _‘_ _He only seems that way because when he does let himself feel, it overwhelms him because he feels so deeply. Sherlock has learned the hard way how vulnerable loving someone makes you. He does feel John; he just often will pretend otherwise to protect himself._ _’_

John doesn’t know him really, but he’s known Sherlock a lot longer than him...could Marcus be right? Sherlock has always been passionate, so much so that there had to be some emotion driving it; in retrospect what Marcus said makes perfect sense.

Long story short, John doesn’t know what to do. It has been several hours since Sherlock and John sealed their bond. Sherlock is holed up in a guest room and has only come out when John went to have a long, long bath; subsequently changing into a comfortable bland jumper and corduroy pants, courtesy of Marcus. John hasn’t even seen Sherlock since he high-tailed it away from John. The only clues he has as to what he’s doing are the noises of Sherlock moving around in the room, interspaced with the unintelligible sound of that deep voice and the convenient absence of nearly all the crime scene photos, reports, Sherlock’s notes and John’s laptop.

John can now feel and hear Sherlock’s heartbeat no matter where he goes, it is as much a reassurance as it is a reminder of feelings that though he’s realized they exist; he is still coming to terms with them.

When John closes his eyes he can still _feel_ what it was like to be connected to Sherlock in that moment when everything felt so... _free_ and they were embracing each other as though they would lose each other if they eased their grip for even a moment.

His wings ripple and quiver whenever he finds himself remembering that moment.

Sherlock’s tantrum, bond sealing and Sherlock becoming a recluse aside, the day was pretty boring for John. He expected that maybe he would be doing something with the case, but so far nothing new has happened and the knowledge that there is a murderer out there who has likely kidnapped two other people (that according to Sherlock are probably still alive) has been weighing on John’s mind all day. Along with everything Sherlock related, which is an awful lot.

He went about his normal routine, exchanged in conversation with Greg (he also let Sherlock be, and occupied himself by reading, going outside and making frequent phone calls to Scotland Yard, checking up on them, dealing with text messages and so forth, it didn’t escape John’s notice that he made no mention of what occurred between Sherlock and John even though he must’ve noticed what happened, it also didn’t escape John’s notice that Greg would look at John and then away as if trying not to be caught, he brought it up with the man but Greg brushed it off and John never got far), made tea, finished his horrible novel, tried to get Sherlock’s attention but was always ignored, and so on and so on. All the while feeling like he could crawl out of his skin at any moment, frustration at Sherlock ignoring him, at Sherlock not including him in what’s going on with the case, just...Sherlock related frustration in general.

Why his heart thought it would be a good idea to love Sherlock Holmes, he’ll never know. ‘ _You don_ _’_ _t choose who you love John_ ’ a voice that sounds painfully like his mothers echoes in his head.

It is late, Greg is taking a walk around the barren gardens and John is heading upstairs; determined to retrieve his laptop from Sherlock if nothing else.

John hesitates before knocking; the familiar sound of Sherlock’s pacing uncannily matches the beat of his own heart. John straightens his pose and takes a deep breath.

_Knock. Knock. Knock_.

The pacing stops.

“Sherlock, I need my laptop.” John keeps his tone as firm and confident as he possibly can, though he feels anything but. He may need the laptop, but really it is an excuse, it would be idiotic to pretend he didn’t come up here to check on Sherlock.

John can hear Sherlock shuffling something around. Not long after the guest room door is swung open and John’s laptop is brusquely shoved in his arms by a disgruntled looking detective.

“Wha-”

Sherlock slams the door shut without a word and John shuts his mouth abruptly. The whole exchange took less than five seconds and Sherlock didn’t even look at him once.

John, feeling a bit nonplussed ( _what the hell was that?_ ) transfers his laptop to one arm and raises a closed fist to knock again.

“Don’t bother continuing to knock, the sound is rather hellish to listen to.” Sherlock’s voice comes through the door muffled and exasperated.

John takes a deep breath and clenches his fist even tighter. _Oh no, you_ _’_ _re not getting away that easily you frustrating bastard_ ( _whom you are apparently in love with_ , another part of him adds traitorously). John knocks. _Loudly_. Many, _many_ times. Too loud for even Sherlock to ignore.

John feels some satisfaction when he hears Sherlock exhale a loud and annoyed groan.

“ _Go away!_ ” Sherlock’s voice is coming from directly behind the door now.

_That_ _’_ _s not happening,_ John purposefully focuses those words on Sherlock.

He can almost feel Sherlock tense, and if John focuses further he can feel a thrum of anxiety along their bond.

_I cannot afford distractions John!_

John sighs; he really didn’t expect Sherlock to react differently.

_Sherlock, you_ _’_ _ve been in there all day._

A pause.

_Your point?_ Sherlock’s voice resonates in his head sharply.

What is his point? He might as well be talking to a cement wall.

“Are we done here? Yes? Excellent, now _leave._ ” Sherlock speaks out loud, tone expressing nothing but finality.

John growls. Yesterday John would’ve happily avoided Sherlock, but now...as much as part of him wants to...

He can hear Sherlock walk away from the door.

“At least tell me how you’ve gotten on with the case.” That is something he does want to know about. John refrains from asking if there’s anything he can do to help, something tells him that with Sherlock acting like he is now John would only be met by a scoff at the very least.

John expects Sherlock to dismiss him again. He doesn’t.

“I have found nothing.”

John frowns. John is bothered, is it the careful wording? Or the fact that Sherlock still hasn’t found anything after this length of time? Or is it that John observes enough to know that Sherlock is still hiding something, lying to him and John doesn’t know why? Probably all three.

John is tempted to break down the door, if not to annoy Sherlock than to at least satisfy his urge to break something. It is then that Sherlock speaks again.

“However, that in of itself is a clue.”

_Er_ _–_ _what?_

“What are you talking about?”

John hears Sherlock resume his pacing.

“The reason why I cannot find anything substantial that could lead us to the killer is because there _is_ nothing. A single puzzle piece is missing, there is a hole in all this evidence that is glaringly obvious and I can’t _believe_ I didn’t notice it before!”

John doesn’t say why Sherlock probably didn’t notice that before, but John is too distracted with trying to wrap his head around what Sherlock means. “It proves this person is terribly clever and is taking pains to hide any trace of their identity while leaving us with what could be considered scapegoat evidence, the gun in the mouth, the kidnapping for days before the eventual killing, the markings, all obvious to see and yet nothing physical that can lead us to the murderer, we are only left with motive and their state of mind. Enough to tease, but not much more. I’ve been trying to find a pattern to all this that could give us more, it _must_ be there!” Sherlock is speaking rapidly, not with his usual admiration or mid-case elation John notes with confusion, his voice fluctuating from frustrated to intensely determined to angry and back again.

Ok, there is some Sherlockian sense to that, but...Something doesn’t quite feel right to John.

“So this person is clever enough to tease us as you say while hiding who they are, why leave only a little evidence? If they’re really trying to hide themselves, why leave anything at all? What is the motive for doing _that?_ ” John wonders.

Sherlock doesn’t answer, whether that’s because he doesn’t know or he’s just not sharing his thoughts, John isn’t sure. Either way, at least Sherlock isn’t basically telling John to ‘fuck off’ anymore.

“They’re taunting me.” Sherlock utters, barely above a whisper but John does hear it.

They’re...taunting _him?_ John isn’t surprised that there would be a personal aspect to the case, it is someone Sherlock knows, but how Sherlock says it (as though he didn’t intend for John to hear) is what has John feeling uneasy and giving the guest room door a narrowed look...Sherlock sounds angry, but a different anger, as though he’s angry with himself, there is an edge of worry that has John automatically on guard.

John doesn’t know what to say.

“Maybe...there was something at the morgue we forgot?” John doubts it, Sherlock cleaned that place out like a man possessed and it wouldn’t be like him to leave potentially valuable evidence behind, really John’s just grasping at straws.

“Oh... _Oh!_ ” Sherlock gasps and John can picture the look of wonder on his face that comes with a puzzle piece sliding into place, his eyes wide and aglow. “Of course, stupid _stupid!_ ”

Before John can ask him what he just realized the door is swung open and John nearly topples over.

“Oi! Watch it!” John steadies himself.

“You are brilliant John!” Sherlock walks up to John looking a bit manic and grabs his ex-blogger tightly by the shoulders; unsteadying John once more.

“Erm...something I said?” John looks up at the frenzied detective.

“You are a conductor of light as always John. Come, we must be off!”

Sherlock leans down and John suddenly feels a soft warmth on his forehead that is gone as quickly as it appeared and Sherlock quickly bounds done the stairs.

John moves to follow before freezing mid-step. Sherlock kissed him. He’s...he’s never, _ever_ done that before. John feels a flush take over his face. In the past few seconds John has gone from being angered and frustrated with Sherlock to having his equilibrium shaken by him. In all likelihood what John said was probably idiotic and only sparked some chain reaction in Sherlock that lead him to discovering whatever he did. His heart throbs as he realizes Sherlock hasn’t referred to him as his ‘conductor of light’ since Baskerville.

“John!” Sherlock yells down from below.

John shakes himself out of his reverie – _no time for that, focus_ – and grabs his gun from his room before following Sherlock down the stairs.

The game is on.


	10. Drawing me in, and you kicking me out

Chapter 9

 

“Will you please tell me what’s going on?” John glances over at the speedometer. “Christ Sherlock slow down!”

“I’d like to know too, and you better not make me regret letting you drive my car.”

John and Greg are currently being driven by Sherlock who seems to think they’re in a race of some sort; his hands are gripping the leather of the steering wheel abnormally tight and his eyes are piercing at the road ahead as though it is personally insulting Sherlock by not getting him where he needs to be right _now_.

Wherever that may be.

Ever since Sherlock called to John, yelled to Lestrade and leaped into the driver’s seat of Greg’s car before he could protest, Sherlock has been entirely focused on whatever got sparked in his mind, if it weren’t for the occasional glances in John’s direction and out the windows of the car, John may have thought that Sherlock has forgotten about their presence at all. Repeated queries as to what Sherlock is thinking have hit a brick wall and rebounded.

His silence has John on edge. It isn’t a typical ‘shut up foolish world I’m thinking’ silence, it is an ‘on the prowl don’t get in my way’ silence and the only time John has ever felt this particular atmosphere around Sherlock was during the last case with Moriarty.

John turns in his seat (one hand gripping the side of the door), mindful of the position of his wings wrapped securely around the front of his body (much like Sherlock’s own), to face Sherlock’s profile.

In the back Greg is leaning forward and holding tightly onto the headrests of both Sherlock and Johns seats; his face tight with worry. John is in a similar state.

“Sherlock-”

“My phone is in the left pocket of my trousers; retrieve it and call Dr James, his number is on my contact list.” Sherlock speaks for the first time during the drive.

Peripherally John notices they are only a few minutes away from town.

“Why-”

“Do it.” Sherlock’s tone leaves no room for negotiation.

Instead of questioning or asking why, John obeys. He reaches his hand into Sherlock’s pocket, neither one noticing how the other tenses at the closely intimate contact, and slides out the phone. Without further delay John taps the screen and finds Marcus’s number quickly.

The inside of the car is tense as John holds up the mobile to his ear and listens to the dial tone.

“When he answers, ask him for the address of his assistant Julia Freemont.”

John wants to ask him why, but he doesn’t have the chance when Marcus picks up at that moment.

_“_ _Sherlock?_ _”_

“Hello Marcus, it’s John actually.”

_“_ _Oh John! Nice to hear from you, why are you-_ _”_

“Listen, I’m sorry but if Sherlock’s driving is any indication-” Beside him Sherlock gives John annoyed look before resuming his death match with the road. “-we’re in a hurry and he told me to ask for the address of your assistant Julia.”

 _What does she have to do with all this?_ They only met her for a moment.

Whether it’s from past experience with Sherlock or he recognizes the urgency in John’s tone, either way Marcus answers immediately without question.

_“_ _24 Marion Lane, take the north exit out of the village. It_ _’_ _s about five minutes down the road on your right._ _”_

John relays the information to Sherlock. The latter nods in acknowledgement and makes an abrupt turn, tires squealing, north now that they’ve entered the village. Both Greg and John grab hold of their respective doors in order to not be thrown against them because of Sherlock’s insane driving.

“We appreciate it Marcus.”

_“_ _I trust Sherlock, if he_ _’_ _s asking it must be important. Are you going to interview her for the case? I should tell you she didn_ _’_ _t come into work today, and when I tried calling her mobile she didn_ _’_ _t answer._ _”_

That’s odd. John frowns and looks at Sherlock curiously.

“She didn’t go into work and hasn’t answered her phone.” John says to Sherlock.

Sherlock doesn’t appear surprised, like he already knew. “Of course.” He says and merely continues driving.

John gives him a narrowed look before turning his attention back to Marcus.

“Thank-you Marcus.”

_“_ _No problem laddie, be careful._ _”_

“It’s Sherlock, I can’t promise that.” _Though I_ _’_ _ll make sure the bugger doesn_ _’_ _t do anything reckless_ , John adds in his head. John quells the feelings of nausea and anger that rise at the possibility of Sherlock doing something irrevocably stupid, like getting himself killed.

Sherlock’s eyes flicker to John briefly at the comment.

John knows he’s probably jumping the gun a bit, but with the u-turn his life has taken recently anything feels possible.

_“_ _I understand._ _”_

No more is said and John hangs up. As soon as he does Sherlock yanks the phone out of his hand –“Oi!”– and promptly puts it back in his pocket.

“What just happened?” Greg pipes up from the back seat.

“Yeah Sherlock, what the bloody _hell_ is going on? And what does Marcus’s assistant have to do with this?”

Sherlock’s wings tense for a moment and then relax at the sound of Johns voice.

The sign for their intended exit shows up and Sherlock turns onto it much like before.

“Damn it Sherlock Holmes! Do _not_ crash my car!”

Sherlock ignores the comment and presses his foot harder on the gas.

“Julia Freemont, almost certainly an alias, has only been working at the morgue for a few weeks. What is likely a well doctored resume and glowing recommendations, also faked, ensured her a job. The house she was living in has to be either a rental or a smokescreen of sorts. Not many well qualified individuals apply for work in a place like this. She herself is actually a well trained doctor, a coroner most likely, evidences by the calluses, scars on her hands and the inflections in her voice when talking to us. I didn’t realize until just recently, _stupid_ , the oddness of a highly trained professional in an underling position at best. Unless she was trying to keep a low profile, while being able to maintain a close eye on what was going on around her. She is the person responsible for the kidnapping and subsequent murder of Jeffery Coffer, and the capture of the others.” Sherlock speedily lets out the words in one long unbroken breath.

The assistant? She seemed so...harmless and rather sweet John thought. Then again, so did Moriarty the first time they met him so you never know really.

John is still confused though, and if the look on Greg’s face is any indication, he is too.

“That seems like an awfully big leap Sherlock.” Greg says.

John doesn’t say anything for the moment and watches Sherlock’s face closely. His expression is unreadable, but through the bond John can feel rising levels of anxiety and his heart has been beating fast (despite his fierce and stoic demeanour) since they left the cottage.

“I _know_ I’m right.”

John crosses his arms and fixes Sherlock with an intense stare. There is something in the way Sherlock said that that has alarm bells going off in his head.

“How do you _know?_ ”John utters.

“Really John, I assume you haven’t gone deaf, I told you how I know and I won’t repeat myself.”

Sherlock turns the car onto the aforementioned lane and slows down exponentially.

 _You_ _’_ _re lying._ John isn’t exactly sure why he felt the urge to say that to Sherlock “privately”. _I_ _’_ _m not as much of an idiot as you think I am; you_ _’_ _re hiding something and have been ever since you came back._

He watches as Sherlock’s fingers tighten on the steering wheel, otherwise Sherlock gives no outward indication of having heard John, but he knows Sherlock did.

_Not now John._

Well, at least he’s not denying it...though John doesn’t feel all that reassured.

 _I think I deserve absolute truth from you after you faked your death and didn_ _’_ _t fucking tell me._ The words sound incredibly hurt, even in his head, and maybe even a bit childish in their delivery. It’s rankling John that Sherlock is hiding something from him, more so than it ever would have before. It’s not just because of what Sherlock did, but because John’s instincts are telling him that whatever Sherlock is hiding is big...big and dangerous. And John wants to help, could that be what it is? At least partially. After seeing the scars, knowing that Sherlock likely went through two years of a very different hell compared to John, and John wasn’t there to protect him...the thought of Sherlock in such pain overshadows whatever anger and hurt John feels towards the man’s actions. Why can’t Sherlock let him help now? He hates feeling useless because there must be something more he could doing to help and be there for...for the man he _loves._

Sherlock winces, hands on the steering wheel faltering for a split second.

_Get your gun ready. We_ _hav_ _e arrived._

John sighs inwardly but accepts Sherlock’s deviation.

The car slows to a complete stop in front of a house not unlike John’s own; deep red brick, a bit smaller with a lawn more overgrown than his own. There are no lights shining from within, no car in the drive...at first glance it looks empty.

The skin on the back of John’s neck prickles. _Something_ _’_ _s not right here._

“Alright, so what are we doing here Sherlock?” Greg asks quietly from the back seat, preparing his own gun; obviously sensing much like John that there is something off about this place.

“She was expecting us.” Sherlock has yet to get out of the vehicle, instead opting to survey the house and surrounding property with a shrewd gaze. John doesn’t bother asking how he knows, neither does Greg. “There won’t be anyone here, no one alive anyway.”

“That’s reassuring.” John mutters.

“There could be something in the house that could give us a clue, in fact I am almost certain she will have left something there on purpose and this is all set up.” Sherlock says matter-of-factly, though there is a dark edge to his voice.

John groans. _Of course it is. It always is._

“And we’re just...going to walk in anyway?” John counters.

Sherlock looks at John.

“Problem?” Sherlock quirks a brow.      

 _Problem? There are so many problems with this entire situation I could write them in a book and beat you over the head with it. Does it matter right now? No, because I_ _’_ _m the bloody idiot who loves you...sod._ Those thoughts John keeps private.

It is an incredibly inappropriate time, but John can’t help but smirk at their familiar on the case interaction, whatever the circumstances and shadows covering it are.

Though John doesn’t see it due to the dark, Sherlock flushes (much to his mortification) at seeing John’s smirk.

“Nope, shall we?” John gestures towards his door.

Sherlock nods and all three men exit the car at once. He pulls three torches out of his coat pocket and tosses them to Greg and John before turning on his own. They are the only lights to pierce the darkness; the flickering evidence of the town is too far away to make any significant dent. Howling wind and their cautious, yet firm, footsteps are the only sounds.

Sherlock leads the way to the front of the house, John following close behind him and Greg looking sideways every so often; shining his torch onto the dark corners of the property.

“This place gives me the creeps.” Greg grumbles.

“How eloquent and worthy of a long time veteran of the police force.” Sherlock says with no small amount of sarcasm; shining his torch on the door handle of the house front door, eyes narrowed.

John rolls his eyes and joins Sherlock at the oak front door (complete with a round window and old curtains covering it from the inside); his torch catches the edge of one of Sherlock’s wings, the gold sheen reflects the light back to him so brightly he almost has to look away.

He doesn’t though, John notices Sherlock frowning.

“What is it?” John asks, hand immediately reaching for his gun.

Sherlock shakes his head and John lets his hand fall. Sherlock unbends from his crouch and shines his light through a crack in the curtains; attempting to a glimpse of the inside.

It is then that John notices all the windows are covered in curtains, he quickly flashes his torch to the two on either side of the door and the couple on the upper level of the house (John notices Greg doing the same thing), preventing them or passersby from seeing what’s inside.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Sherlock go eerily still; his eyes and torchlight stuck on the crack in the curtain.

“Sherlock?” John whispers; edging closer to the man.

John tries to get a glance at whatever Sherlock is looking at but he feels a large, gloved hand land on his shoulder and push him away; the hand doesn’t move and John is shocked to feel those long fingers squeezing him.

John looks up at him feeling worried, the patterns of shadow being cast on his face by those cheekbones cutting through the light of the torch only serve to make Sherlock look ghostlike, accentuating the tense line of his jaw and brow. There is a distinct, though faint, tremor to the hand holding onto John.

John’s hand itches to reach for his gun and find the cause of Sherlock’s distress.

Greg finally seems to notice the tension.

“What’s happening? What do you see?” Greg walks up to them as well, shining a light around them as though searching for something.

John doesn’t take his gaze off Sherlock.

 _What_ _’_ _s wrong?_ John silently asks the detective.

John’s instincts are going haywire. He doesn’t like this.

The words in Sherlock’s head seem to spur him into action. He yanks his hand away from John as though electrified and turns to face his two companions with the fiercest eyes John has ever seen.

“John, Lestrade, enter through the back door and I’ll go through here.” Sherlock flashes his light briefly on John and Greg before motioning to the front door.

Both John and Greg hesitate. John narrows his eyes at Sherlock.

“You’re not entering the home of a bloody psychopath _alone_ , what are you think-”

“You’ll be there not a minute behind me, really not much of a time difference. Besides, I doubt there is anything inside that could danger us at present. Now _go._ ”

 _If there_ _’_ _s nothing dangerous in there, why are you making us go in through the back door?_ John asks himself.

“Fine.” John reluctantly agrees.

Sherlock nods stiffly before opening the door – _unlocked, interesting_ –and swiftly enters inside.

“Let’s go.” Greg utters.

_You don_ _’_ _t have to tell me twice._

John rushes ahead of Greg as the two make their way quickly around the house, bypassing decrepit flower bushes and a rusted bicycle.

Assuming the back door is unlocked also ( _definitely expecting us, Sherlock was right_ ), John cautiously opens it –gun in hand.

The two of them enter the house and begin edging along a hallway that looks far too long for the small place; forcing their breathing to remain quiet and steady, though John’s heart is pounding a mile a minute.

 _I_ _will_ ** _kill_** _him if he_ _’_ _s gone and done something stupid, the bastard._

With the stance and eye of a trained soldier, John is careful –walking as quickly as he dares –in his movement and examination of the home around him...though home might be stretching it. There is no sign of anything personal, if anything the house feels empty and there is the stench of... _blood._

If Greg’s sharp inhale is any indication, he smells it too.

_Fuck!_

Throwing caution to the wind, wings tense and ready, John races through the corridor and enters the first open door he sees on his left with his gun arm outstretched.

John notes in the back of his head that it is in perfect line of sight of the front door.

“Oh my god.” John gasps; his raised arm automatically falling to his side, still holding onto the gun tight.

In the middle of the room is a blond woman around John’s age, naked and with wounds at first glance that look much like Jeffery Coffers. She’s face down on the pale grey wooden floor, head facing John’s direction, brown eyes glazed over in death, a bullet wound clean and gaping between them. Her back is exposed with familiar letters carved and bloody across her shoulders; YKMIWKY.

The room is completely vacant, save for Sherlock Holmes currently crouched low by her head; his right hand currently clenched tightly in his pocket, his left hovering just above the surface of the letters on her back.

John can’t see his face, but the shaking feathers of his wings trailing on the floor behind him give John some insight into his state of mind. John himself is feeling sick, sick and angry at the person –the woman who did this. Sherlock and John have dealt with serial killers in their past, never once was there a woman. Though John knows any brand of psychopath isn’t limited to men only.

Behind him Greg has pulled out his mobile and is calling the police.

With a surprising steadiness, and sensing no further danger, John puts his gun away and slowly approaches Sherlock.

John doesn’t even think, he reaches out and places a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock doesn’t throw off the touch.

“You knew her too, didn’t you?” John doesn’t know why exactly, but the second he saw the body and Sherlock he had a gut feeling once again this case was made even more personal for the detective.

Sherlock doesn’t respond, but soon after John feels an odd pressure surround the entirety of his left leg. He glances down and feels a swell of emotion when he sees that Sherlock’s right wing has completely wrapped itself around him, the edges of the feathers brushing the denim of his jeans in a reassuring caress.

The gentle nature of the touch doesn’t seem like Sherlock, and John wonders if it’s unconscious. It wouldn’t be the first time their wings have acted seemingly of their own accord.

“Her name was Eliza Kristoff. I made her acquaintance when I was in Poland.” Sherlock’s voice is monotone, not betraying anything.

John frowns, hand unconsciously clenching Sherlock’s shoulder. He must’ve met her while he was...away. Sherlock also mentioned that Jeffery Coffer was a member of his homeless network. Maybe...why is this woman kidnapping and killing people Sherlock knew? Was she involved with Moriarty somehow?

John is about to voice his thoughts when Sherlock looks up to him from his position on the floor. There is such a hard determination in his eyes, masking a sense of fear.

There is a pleading there...like he...like he knows, knows what John is thinking, of course he does...and he’s pleading with John to not say it, don’t ask me... _oh god_.

John gasps, struck with an epiphany.

“You know don’t you? You _know_ who she is! Why she’s doing this, killing these people...” John feels like he should’ve realized this before, he knew Sherlock was hiding some knowledge, but he never thought that Sherlock already knew exactly what was going on and was just choosing not to tell anyone, pretending to not know as much as he obviously did.

Sherlock looks momentarily surprised at John’s declaration; he covers that however and gives a cautious nod.

John laughs bitterly. He takes his hand away from Sherlock and walks away; yanking on his leg until Sherlock’s wing releases it. He has just enough time to glimpse the brief flash of panic on Sherlock’s face before he turns away from the detective, unable to even look at him right now.

John isn’t even sure why he’s suddenly feeling so angry, yes Sherlock lied and hid his knowledge from John, but it wouldn’t be the first time and John already knew he was doing that, so why...John feels a tremor go through his shoulder and an ache cramp in his leg.

It might just be because he is still sensitive from his Sherlock-induced grief, and all the bloody mess surrounding that, and realizing the sheer extent of what Sherlock is hiding just reminds him...that Sherlock doesn’t trust him the way he thought. Does it make him love the bastard any less? God no, and maybe that’s why he’s barely able to resist the urge to _break_ something...anything.

John doesn’t even notice Sherlock come up behind him.

“I _couldn_ _’_ _t_ tell you John.” The tall man speaks, quiet.

John bites his lip.

“And _why_ is that? Oh let me guess, you can’t tell me.” John’s tone is cutting.

“I’m sorry.”

John scoffs and turns around to face the detective.

“Why _are_ you sorry?” John crosses his arms and fixes Sherlock with a glare. Sherlock is silent, staring at him with those intense eyes alight with worry. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

John goes to walk away, both from Sherlock and the dead body, when a large wing whips out in front of him.

John growls, wanting to push it away but instinct is telling him not to touch the appendage so deep in meaning and magic with anything but tenderness...which he does not feel like doing right now.

“Let me pass Sherlock.” John snarls.

“I _can_ _’_ _t_ tell you because I don’t have a choice.” Sherlock is insistent.

John clenches his fists and abruptly turns once more to face the Detective, careful to not let his wing brush with Sherlock’s.

“You’re Sherlock Holmes, you’re as clever as it gets, I’m positive that if you really wanted to you could find a way. Just like your fake death, but you didn’t and you don’t.” John is breathing heavily through his teeth now, voice low and angry. “Either I’m so useless I’m not worth your consideration, or you don’t trust me. Which is it Sherlock? It has to be one or the other!”

For the first time during this exchange, Sherlock looks genuinely shocked; eyes wide and mouth parted in astonishment. The sight throws John’s anger off for a moment...but only a moment.

Sherlock closes the distance between them until John has to practically bend his head backwards to not collide with Sherlock’s chest. John tries not to let the proximity affect him. The tall man with the sinfully dark hair lowers his face until he is nose to nose with John.

“There is never, and will never be a universe in which I will believe that you are useless, or that I don’t trust you.” Sherlock delivers the words slowly, emphasising each one with clear, no holds barred intent.

John expected Sherlock to slay him for his emotional stupidity, he never expected Sherlock to say... _that._ Not even sure if he believes him, doesn’t _let_ himself believe him and ignores the warmth trying to crawl itself up from this soul and out through his wings. If Sherlock truly doesn’t believe those of John, than what could the reason be?

It is then that it really occurs to John how close he and Sherlock are, lips barely apart and Sherlock...Sherlock isn’t moving away.

John feels an overwhelming to kiss him, with plunging tongue and sharp teeth, and push him angrily up against the wall; it would be a relief to let out his frustration in an ultimately pleasurable manner...but he can’t, he just can’t. It is taking all his strength to keep his face blank, trying to hide those thoughts from the most observant man on the planet.

Sherlock’s eyes flicker to John’s lips and back up to his eyes. John notices the movement and he suddenly feels uneasy, could Sherlock have deduced what John thought a moment ago?

John is left reeling when Sherlock abruptly moves backwards, breaking the bubble and allowing Johns previous anger to filter in, though not as intense as before.

Sherlock is carefully avoiding John’s gaze, a hand still in his pocket, his other hand clenching and unclenching. Frozen to the spot for the time being, John doesn’t move as Sherlock gives him one last unreadable gaze before storming out of the room and out the front door.

“Whoa –Sherlock! What’s going on?” An irate Greg calls out from the front door.

John didn’t even notice when he left, probably continuing the call with the police outside.

The intensity of what just happened has John trembling..

“John? What happened? Are you alright?” Greg moves to John’s side, sparing the body a pained and sympathetic glance before focusing on the doctor.

John considers telling Greg what he’s discovered about Sherlock’s true knowledge of the case. Where would that get him though?

“I’m fine, Sherlock knows her. Eliza Kristoff he said.” John ends up telling him instead.

Greg looks skeptical at the first part of the statement, knowing that John is lying. He doesn’t push it and instead comments on the second part.

“Her too? Bloody hell, this woman is insane. What on earth is going on?”

John doesn’t respond. Knowing if he did Greg would know he’s lying and might press him on it then. John hates lying to Greg; he hates it even more that he’s lying for the one man who has deceived him more than anyone else.

John pushes those confusing thoughts away for the time being and focuses on the body.

Sherlock may know everything, or at least almost everything, but John still doesn’t (not just with the case, but with Sherlock too) and he can’t help but reiterate Greg’s question... _what on earth is going on?_


	11. Love your curves and all your edges

Chapter 10

 

It’s quite late before John, Sherlock and Greg are able to head back to the cottage. Once the police arrived, the next few hours progressed in the form of statements, being interviewed and why they were there in the first place. Dr James arrived along with several police officers, and was aghast when told that the woman he recently hired to be his assistant is actually the person responsible for all this. He also seemed to notice, along with Greg, the new layer of tension between Sherlock and John. Seeing as how the situation was hardly appropriate to inquire about what happened, neither one asked. Sherlock gave his usual long diatribe of deductions about the crime scene and the woman known as Julia Freemont. As always Sherlock was thorough and gave enough information to satisfy the lead detective...just enough. Now that John is aware Sherlock is holding back information about this woman John didn’t know he had until recently, he is hyper aware of when Sherlock exposes just the right amount of information without giving away the truth that he knows far more than he’s letting on.

John stood there grinding his teeth the whole time (while Greg watched him with a furrowed brow from the sidelines), because focusing on his frustration with Sherlock was a lot easier than thinking about the almost... _something_ they shared in the heat of the moment, or even thinking about what Sherlock said regarding John.

John is sure they would’ve left sooner, if the deeply agitated energy rolling off of Sherlock was any indication, but while the forensic team was collecting evidence, Sherlock was subtly collecting his own and taking snapshots in and around the house with his phone; most of the time Sherlock had a hand fingering something in his pocket. A small detail John didn’t think much on.

When they were finally allowed to leave, Sherlock tossed the keys of Greg’s car back to him and threw himself into the back seat, slamming the car door behind him. John and Greg shared a look before the two men followed his example.

As they drove back to the cottage, Greg handled his car at a much safer and legal speed than Sherlock; John kept his gaze out the window. Because of that, he noticed a black car (it looked black, hard to tell since it was still dark out) parked not far from the crime scene. John doubts Sherlock noticed. The Detective Sherlock had his eyes closed, legs stretched out casually along the back seat, palms resting against his mouth, teeth near digging into his flesh. John however recognized the vehicle as one of Mycroft’s staples. The sight had John feeling more annoyed than nervous, knowing Mycroft was keeping a weather eye on them. Not a new reality, but the presence (direct or not) of yet another Holmes he is feeling angry and frustrated with (albeit for different reasons) is seriously messing with his steady control.

Greg might’ve seen though, because as soon as John did the man gave a long suffering sigh and looked on the verge of banging his head against the steering wheel.

The entire drive back was silent.

Sherlock exited the car so fast John was still getting his seatbelt off when the detective strode into the house.

All men were deep in thought, and all for different reasons. Because of this, the silence continued while they entered the cottage. Sherlock cloistered himself up in the guest room. Greg looked like he wanted to find out more from John and Sherlock, but decided that with the little amount of energy he had it wasn’t worth it at the moment. And so he went straight to bed in the second guest bedroom down the hall from John’s room.

John found it difficult to sleep. He went through the motions of making a late night cup of tea, knowing it wouldn’t help him sleep but it might bring him some peace. He wondered and pondered the evening over and over again, barely able to make sense of the maelstrom of emotions it brought him. John eventually decided that he wasn’t going to get anywhere tonight, and that he would at least attempt to sleep and figure out what to do about Sherlock in the morning.

Now, after having prepared himself for bed, John sequesters himself beneath the cool duvet, closes his eyes and falls asleep...hoping that tomorrow will bring some clarity to him, the case and Sherlock. The last image John’s increasingly sleepy mind gives him is of the abrupt kiss on the forehead Sherlock gave him earlier, too close to unconscious to care or even really register it, his breathing settles in slumber with a slight smile on his face.

*** 

John dreams of the cottage again.

_The garden is blanketed in pure white snow, large clumps of white fluff fall upon the ground. He sees the same little boy; the dream whispers the name in his mind;_ _‘_ _Billy_ _’_ _. The child looks older than before, maybe ten years old now. John doesn_ _’_ _t know who or where this boy has come from, his dream self doesn_ _’_ _t care, he is feeling deep warmth at the sight of the happy child jumping up high and trying to catch the snowflakes._

_The scene of nature around him is idyllic, and even though he is wearing nothing but sleep trousers and a t-shirt, the cold air and snow don_ _’_ _t touch him...all he feels is joy._

_It is while John is watching the inquisitive child, currently trying to examine the snowflakes one by one as they fall on his sleeve, that the older woman another dream showed him appears. She is wearing a long turquoise coat, greying hair sticking out in tuffs beneath the edges of her matching cap, her long golden wings sway with her as she walks towards the child._

_John sees she is not alone. There is a man behind her, brown hair with streaks of grey, golden eyes and wings the colour of chocolate._

_They are approaching the child with matching smiles. The boy, so enraptured with his task, doesn_ _’_ _t notice as the older gentlemen sneaks up behind him and scoops him up effortlessly into the air; laughing all the while._

_The boy shrieks with an indignant scowl._

_“_ _Aw boo, turn that frown upside down!_ _”_ _The man says while turning the boy literally upside down and swinging him gently in a playful manner._

_The child looks like he_ _’_ _s trying not to laugh, the beginnings of a smile appear despite the boys squirming protests._

_The older woman has her arms wrapped tight around her, watching the duo now rolling around in the snow with a laughing smile._

_The sight of the obviously happy family only adds to the tranquil nature of the dream._

_Then suddenly, the edges of the dream turn hazy and dark. John finds the warmth bleeding away. Finally feeling the cold, he watches the older woman abruptly collapse onto the snowy ground._

_The older man rushes to her side. He has her head resting on his lap as he shouts at Billy to go and phone an ambulance._

_The boy is frozen several feet away, watching the scene unfold before him with eyes wide in shock._

_John can feel the joy fading from the young child as the edges of the dream continue to darken and finally, fade away altogether._

John comes back to consciousness slowly, eyes blinking open with the dim morning light shining through his window. Vestiges of the dream linger in his mind, it was pleasant up until the end...but there was something about the dream that has John feeling confused, like he’s missing something, a realization of some sort just out of reach and he can’t grasp it. It’s something to do with the man he saw, he was familiar to him somehow...and the boy, the little boy as well. John has felt such a strong connection to the little boy the two times he’s dreamt about him, and seeing the look of shock and devastation on his face near the end of that last dream has John feeling uneasy even now.

Why has he dreamt about the cottage and the same people two nights in a row?

John never put much stock in dream psychology, maybe that’s because most of his were nightmares and pretty straightforward. These though...for whatever reason, they don’t feel coincidental.

Whatever the reason, at least he has something relatively innocuous to ponder other than the events of yesterday, and what fresh chaos today could bring.

 

Ten minutes later, John has freshly showered, dressed in some of Marcus’s old clothing (a dark green long sleeved shirt with argyle patterning and worn jeans) and is loitering outside the room Sherlock has isolated himself in. There are faint movements coming from within, the sound and feel of Sherlock’s heartbeat aligns itself with his own (the sound causing a tension John didn’t realize he’d been feeling to release)... _the bugger probably didn_ _’_ _t even sleep._

John is about to knock, though for what reason exactly...he doesn’t know. To check on him? To confront him about last night? To ask him what the next step is? To punch him? Hug him... _kiss him?_ John sighs deeply, lets his hand fall and makes his way down the stairs instead. In all likelihood, Sherlock will come down eventually, better to embrace these few moments of peace –ha, “peace”–while he has them.

First step, tea. Tea and toast. Everything else...well, everything can just bloody wait.

John has reached the bottom of the stairs and is walking towards the kitchen when –

_Knock! Knock! Knock!_

Three sharp raps in quick succession sound from behind him.

John frowns. Steeling himself, John turns around and opens the front door.

John groans. “You have _got_ to be kidding me.”

Fate or whatever must _really_ hate him.

“Hello to you too Dr Watson, may I come in?” Mycroft Holmes, dressed in a fine pearl grey suit, gives a sardonic smile and gestures pointedly with the tip of his umbrella. He doesn’t express any sign of surprise at the sight of John’s wings.

John doesn’t move, his posture automatically going rigid and wary.

“What are you doing here Mycroft?” John blocks off his entry with an arm and gives the man in front of him a suspicious stare.

Mycroft merely raises a singular eyebrow and gives a look that might as well say ‘well, aren’t you a funny little mortal’. He looks like he’s about to speak but John holds up a hand to stop him.

“You know what, never mind. Just...get in, go...sit down somewhere and contemplate conquering the world with missile firing umbrellas, stares and stink faces. I don’t care. _I_ _’_ _m_ going to go make tea.” John barely catches the somewhat affronted, though vaguely amused, expression on Mycroft’s face before turning around and resuming his trek towards the kitchen, not bothering to close the door behind him.

This time the headache he feels coming on isn’t from an unsealed bond. _Fucking Holmes_ _’_ _s._

“Was that-”

“Yes.” John confirms for Greg, the latter is still wearing his pyjamas and currently nursing a cup of tea at the kitchen island.

“Bloody hell, this can’t be good.” Greg rests a tired hand against his face.

John snorts. He goes over to the still warm pot of tea Greg made and eagerly begins making himself a cuppa.

“When is it ever good with Mycroft?”

Greg hums. “Touché. Well, good luck with that, I’ll be here if you need me. Like if he kidnaps you or Sherlock tries to kill him...though don’t be surprised if I’m a bit slow in reacting to that last one.” Greg chuckles. John’s lips twitch into a smile. He is just stirring in a dab of honey when Greg continues. “Seriously though, have you noticed how Sherlock has been especially touchy about the subject of Mycroft lately? More so than usual.” Greg posits, taking a sip of his tea while watching John.

“Definitely.” Yet another thing John is curious about.

John lets the stirring spoon clatter to the counter, with tea in hand he walks out of the kitchen. Greg watches him carefully the entire time.

 

When John enters the living room he finds Mycroft sitting in the chair directly opposite his usual one, long spindly fingers twirling his umbrella. He is surveying the room with an unreadable expression.

_Here we go._

John walks over and settles himself into his usual spot by the fire place, which he notices is already blazing with a roaring fire. Greg’s doing probably.

John’s expression is relaxed as stares down Mycroft, determined not to let it show how the presence of the man sitting opposite him is truly unsettling.

Mycroft can probably tell anyway.

“You have made yourself quite at home here I see.” Mycroft notes.

John takes a sip of his tea.

“It’s a nice spot; I _really_ can’t imagine what Sherlock would be doing with it.” John gives Mycroft a very fake smile, indicating to the man that he knows Mycroft lied about the home being given to him in Sherlock’s will.

Mycroft notices and leans back in the chair.

“Not much I imagine. My brother doesn't seem the type to have a penchant for country life.” Mycroft gives John an equally fake smile in return.

John settles his cup on the end table beside him, bringing his full attention on Mycroft.

“Why did you send me here?” John finally asks.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow.

“I believe you overestimate my capabilities Dr Watson, I didn’t send you anywhere. You made the choice of your own free will. I merely gave you the option.”

John clenches his jaw and resists the urge to throw his hot tea at the man’s smug face.

“Why the option then?” John clarifies dryly.

“That John is a question better asked of my dear brother.” Mycroft answers, without really answering anything at all.

_Jesus, and I thought Sherlock was frustrating._

John is curious though.

“How would _he_ know why _you_ lied to me about this cottage being his?” John asks, more frustration showing through than he would’ve liked.

That smug smile is back as Mycroft continues to watch John like a predatory hawk.

“Oh Dr Watson, I assure you the cottage _is_ his. I may have just...omitted certain facts about its origin.”

So the cottage _is_ Sherlock’s? Is Mycroft even telling the truth? What would be the purpose in lying now? “Really John, we both know you to be a relatively intelligent man, surely you must’ve noticed signs that Sherlock is at least somewhat familiar with the place, more so than is usual for him.” Mycroft gestures with both hands to the space around him.

John’s brow furrows.

“I...suppose.” John agrees cautiously. Because now that he thinks about it, Mycroft has a point, but Sherlock has always had an uncanny ability to make himself look at home almost anywhere.

“Good. I will reiterate, ask my brother about all this if it really matters to you.” Mycroft studiously gazes at John.

John sighs.

“Sherlock won’t tell me anything.” The words come out much more bitter than he intended, hands clenching the sides of the armchair. “Why would he when-” John stops himself when he remembers exactly who is sitting across from him.

“Ah, I see.”

Johns jaw tightens. He refuses to show any weakness in front of the man who might as well be the entire British Government. John fixes Mycroft with an unwavering stare. Mycroft looks momentarily impressed, though there are traces of disappointment around his eyes. He pushes himself out of his chair and begins a casual pace around the room.

“I take it Sherlock told you his reasons for faking his death and neglecting to tell you?” Mycroft eyes John as he gives a spot of wall an odd moment of consideration before walking to stand in front of the fire.

John notices the slightly odd wording but doesn’t react and instead refuses to rise to Mycroft’s bait, keeping his emotions tightly reigned in, _what the fuck is he doing?_

“Yes.”

“And if I told you he carefully omitted a detail you might consider vital...” Mycroft trails off, waiting for John’s response.

John snorts.

“I would say, why should I believe you? I have even less reason to trust you than Sherlock.”

Mycroft appears to accept this.

“I believe in this insistence, given how you know me to be, you should trust I have no reason lie. Therefore, I must be telling the truth.” Mycroft crosses his arms, umbrella hanging artfully off one arm.

“What are you talking about?” John pushes himself out of the chair, his wings tight with tension. He wants to know whatever it is Sherlock didn’t tell him, but would it make a difference? And really, why should he believe Mycroft? “And why would you tell me?” John assumes a soldiers stance.

Mycroft rolls his eyes.

“Because my brother is a fool, and contrary to what many think, I care about his happiness.” Mycroft’s voice comes out relatively emotionless, but entirely genuine.

John can’t help but laugh.

“That’s bullshit. When have you, ever, ever given any indication of caring whether Sherlock is _happy_ or not?” At the moment, John can’t seem to help but feel defensive on Sherlock’s behalf.

Mycroft doesn’t appear effected by John’s outburst.

“Interesting.” Mycroft utters. A look of what can be considered approval crosses his face. “I commend your loyalty John, especially considering the...paradoxical nature of how you’re feeling towards my brother at present.” Mycroft gives John a knowing look.

John feels a chill bubble up his spine. _How can he know...of course he does._

“Get to the point Mycroft so I can throw you out.” John says, inwardly cringing at the slight shakiness with which he spoke.

Mycroft ignores the latter half of that statement and for the first time he looks away from John and towards the fire instead. The stance, the look, for an instant reminds John of Sherlock and he doesn’t have any trouble believing they are indeed brothers.

“Given his actions, I can understand how you might assume Sherlock’s actions indicate that he doesn’t value you as much as you thought. I urge you to reconsider that thought, for all our sakes.” Mycroft pauses. “Many have called my brother a psychopath, and even he has referred to himself as a high-functioning sociopath, with the available evidence it is not an unreasonable hypothesis to make, even though both of those assertions are entirely false. This was made even clearer to me when you became a part of his life. My brother and I have always abhorred sentiment. Caring is an unfortunate reality of being human, I will however always believe it to be a disadvantage. In my brothers case; he has more reason to believe that than most. He has always had a more difficult time fighting his heart than I have.” Mycroft’s voice turns somewhat solemn at the end, his eyes unwavering from the fire. John finds himself intently listening to Mycroft’s words. “No one can truly comprehend the heart of Sherlock Holmes; no one has ever tried or cared enough to notice he has one. No one but you.” This time Mycroft looks at John, a silent urging to pay attention sharp in his eyes. “I may not understand the purpose of it, but you hold a place in my brother’s heart far more strongly than you realize. Whatever you may think, whatever he may believe, that is the truth. His actions that lead to him dismantling Moriarty’s network are proof of that.”

At that, John laughs.

“I’m sorry, but seriously, in what bloody universe is what Sherlock did proof that he somehow...cares for me?” The old grief rushes forth in stinging pain before John pushes it back once more.

Mycroft sighs, an expression of annoyance on his face much like Sherlock’s ‘I’m surrounded by idiots’ look.

“Remember John, Sherlock omitted a detail that – knowing you – you would probably care to know. I assume Sherlock neglected to mention it in effort to deny his own weakness. The irony is that not telling you is stronger evidence of just that than telling you in the first place.” Mycroft suddenly looks very tired. “But I digress. Sherlock jumping off that rooftop, and not telling you he lived was one of the many contingencies plans should our initial plan fail. I won’t go into details; at this point it doesn’t matter.” Mycroft turns around and resumes his spot on the chair. John remains standing. “Suffice to say, if Sherlock hadn’t jumped you would’ve been killed.”

 _Wha_ _–_ _What?_ John feels his heart drop out beneath him. He reaches out a hand to steady himself against his chair.

“Not just you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade as well. You all would’ve been shot if Sherlock had not taken the, quite literal, fall. However, I believe that Sherlock’s primary motivation for doing so was you more than anyone else.” Mycroft pauses to make sure John is paying attention. At this point John has collapsed into an unsteady sitting position on the arm of his chair, not able to look Mycroft in the eye.

“Sherlock anticipated Moriarty would do something like this, however, he was positive he could somehow get the code –for which he deduced there would exist, and he was right –to recall the gunmen following the three of you, therefore rendering the need for Sherlock to jump moot. What he didn’t foresee was Moriarty shooting himself before Sherlock could get it. This left him with only two options, either proceed with the original plan, which would’ve unfortunately led to your deaths, or go with contingency plan ‘Lazarus’. Sherlock chose the latter.” Mycroft pauses again, allowing John a moment to absorb what he’s just been told.

“Unfortunately, because Moriarty was dead, there was no way to ensure your survival unless Sherlock himself died and the gunmen believed it. Sherlock didn’t tell you he was alive because if Moriarty’s cohorts were given even the slightest indication that Sherlock didn’t die when he jumped, they would’ve almost certainly shot you anyway. And with being attached to my brother’s hip, they were watching you with the most focus.” Mycroft sighs, looking once more towards the fire. “In the end, Sherlock believed that you grieving for his death, and the possibility of you hating him should he survive the ordeal of destroying Moriarty, to be worth it if you lived. The slightest chance of you dying was not acceptable to him.” Mycroft finishes with a piercing look in John’s direction.

 _Oh god. Oh...god. Fuck._ John’s heart is beating wildly in his chest, his wings are quivering and his mind is awash with what Mycroft has just revealed to him. _How...what..._ John didn’t think it was possible for his world to upturn yet again. This cannot be healthy.

“Why didn’t he tell me?” John finds himself whispering, voice hoarse.

“As I have said John, my brother is a fool.” Is all Mycroft responds with.

It is as if the worlds are a calling, before John can say, do or think anything more, the sound of a door crashing open and frenzied footsteps pounding down the stairs breaks the silence.

_Sherlock._

“ _You!_ ” Sherlock pauses only for a moment in the archway leading into the living room; face and voice spitting angry fire in Mycroft’s direction.

Both Mycroft and John swivel their heads to face him more directly, and John can’t even begin to process the myriad of emotions he feels at seeing the man after what he just learned.

Mycroft slowly stands up to face his brother.

“Hello Sherlock.” Mycroft’s voice is calm, too calm.

“Sherlock...” John starts.

Sherlock isn’t paying attention to John, and instead he rushes forward – eyes blazing – and grasps the lapels of Mycroft’s coat, pulling him forward with shocking strength fueled by adrenaline. He roughly pushes his elder brother into the wall beside the fireplace; face to face.

Mycroft has his arms raised in surrender, not at all surprised at what Sherlock just did, as though he were fully expecting it. John however....

“What the hell Sherlock!” John calls out, more than a little shocked at what he just witnessed. He has never seen Sherlock looks so...violent before, not even toward a suspect.

In the nearby distance he hears another set of footsteps heading their way.

Sherlock continues to ignore John.

“ _How dare you_ , why _are_ you even here? I _warned_ you what I would be ever so tempted to do if you ever showed your face to mine _brother_.” Sherlock spits the last word, quite literally in Mycroft’s face. His wings are spread to their full length; on the offensive, anger John has never seen or felt before is spewing out of Sherlock in a way that is almost predatory. The relentless racing of his heart is echoing almost painfully loud in Johns ears.

John is torn between unmoving shock and the instinct to rush forward and pull Sherlock away before he actually kills his brother.

Right now, it doesn’t look like such a farfetched possibility.

_Seriously, what the hell is going on with these two?_

“Now what’s happened? Do we need to interfere?” Greg says from directly beside John.

Before John can respond Mycroft speaks.

“I have already explained myself to you Sherlock, I can do nothing more, and I will not indulge your childish anger. If there is anything I can do to help you here, it is my responsibility to follow through with it.” Mycroft is stoic in the face of Sherlock’s vicious anger.

“Oh because your _help_ turned out so well last time. All this, everything is your _fault!_ ” Sherlock’s baritone has peaked at a whole new level of dangerous. His grip on Mycroft tightens with bruising force and his eyes are pinned on his brother; accusatory. “I warn you, do not appall me any further. Right now, there is only one other person in the world I _despise_ more than you, so for our mother’s sake I suggest you leave without another word.”

Mycroft looks like he wants to speak further but evidently decides it is not worth possibly angering Sherlock further.

The darkness on Sherlock’s face doesn’t decrease as he releases Mycroft; and the edges of his wings seem almost sharper. The older brother smooths out the lapels of his coat and wisely takes a few steps away from Sherlock.

The room is silent. All eyes follow Mycroft as he retreats to the front door, once there he stops.

“I would appreciate it if you were to refrain from breaking my nose for speaking; however I did come here with a purpose. I have something that may be of interest to you. Decide whether your anger toward me is more important than what you’re trying to save.” Mycroft gives Sherlock a pointed gaze, Sherlock’s jaw tenses and his narrowed eyes follow Mycroft’s movements as he pulls out a file from beneath his coat. He places it on the table beside the front door. “Good day Dr Watson. DI Lestrade.” Mycroft nods his head cordially before giving Sherlock a parting glance and exiting the cottage with a quiet click of the door.

The silence now is ominous and awkward at best.

“Right...well, I’ll go...make breakfast.” Greg looks between Sherlock and John for a moment before ducking out of the room and leaving them alone.

Sherlock is facing away from John; the entire line of his body is still rigid with anger.

John isn’t sure what to say. Or rather, he doesn’t know what to say _first._ His eyes are fixed on Sherlock, so many emotions forming on his face.

The worrying oddity of Sherlock’s violent reaction to seeing Mycroft is pushed aside for the moment as John remembers what Mycroft said to him about Sherlock.

John asks himself, if he were in Sherlock’s position, can he honestly say he would not have done what Sherlock did?

Well, at least he knows what to say now. John braces himself and walks up to Sherlock, he takes a deep breath.

“Sherlock?” John speaks with a determination that surprises the other man enough to turn around.

The anger on Sherlock’s face melts away when he looks at John; instead there is a wary caution there; waiting for Johns reaction.

John gives Sherlock a once over, noticing the old flannel robe (far too short and falling just above his knees) he’s wearing wound tightly around him, a pyjama top that clashes horribly with it, the birds nest of curly hair that shows signs of having long musical fingers running through it over and over again, the dark circles around his eyes (not sleeping enough), the slight sallow look to his cheeks (not eating enough), the still tense though slowly relaxing posture of his wings, and the almost childlike confusion in his eyes as he observes Johns own observations of him.

“John...?” Sherlock questions with a slight head tilt.

The sight of that achingly familiar motion is what spurs John into action. He throws his arms around the detective and clutches the tall, gangly man to him tightly.

Sherlock staggers a bit with the force of Johns embrace, eyes wide in surprise and arms frozen at his sides.

“You stupid, idiotic, stupid, _stupid_ man...” John mumbles into the burgundy fabric of Sherlock’s robe; his hands clench it even tighter and John feels such a sense of overwhelming relief at having Sherlock within the circle of his arms.

Sherlock is still stiff in shock, but a few seconds later his stance appears to relax and hesitant arms lift and wrap themselves around John. It is only natural that their wings reach out to each other as well.

There are still many feelings and thoughts John needs to sort through, a lot of them and it won’t be easy, but there is one thing John knows he needs to say now.

The truth, holding onto anger in his pain is not worth potentially losing Sherlock – _again_ – over.

“You are the best man I have ever known.” John pauses in effort to quell the tears welling up in his eyes. _Goddamn it Watson, don_ _’_ _t you fucking cry now._ He feels Sherlock stiffen again. “I forgive you.”

If John has any lingering doubts on telling that to Sherlock, they are gone when Sherlock makes an exhaling sound of pain and if possible, he clutches his ex-blogger almost desperately.

“John...”

“I am still righteously pissed off, but I mean what I said Sherlock.”

He feels the small movement of Sherlock nodding.

John doesn’t say anything else; he gives a slight shake of his head, allows himself a moment of weakness and breathes in the dark, spicy scent of Sherlock.

John shifts his weight minutely one foot to the other and automatically freezes when he feels that the tie of Sherlock’s robe has come loose.

“Um...Sherlock?” John bites his lip.

“Mmm.” Sherlock hums, not moving.

“You’re not wearing any pants.”

It is a moment before Sherlock speaks.

“Excellent observation John.” Sherlock utters as if it is the most normal thing in the world.

There is silence, and John can’t decide if he’s too comfortable with the idea of Sherlock being half naked or if he is too mortified to even move.

The choice is taken from him when he feels Sherlock trembling. For a second John is concerned and thinks he’s crying...but then he hears the breathy noises of Sherlock trying to keep quiet from... _laughing._

John bites his lip harder and finds himself trying not to laugh as well.

They completely fail of course and it isn’t long before the two of them are trying to prevent the other from falling because they’re laughing so hard tears are forming.

The two of them, at that moment, are feeling too relieved to care about a little awkward nudity.

Of course it would be the moment Greg decided to re-enter the room to tell them he had made eggs. And of course it is at the exact time John and Sherlock move slightly away from each other, still laughing, Sherlock’s now open robe flowing freely.

“Oh for god’s sake! I did _not_ need to see that! Sherlock put some pants on!” Greg cringes and covers his eyes.

This just causes the duo to enter a new round of giggles. Greg sighs and turns around, mumbling under his breath. “Bloody children.”

Neither John nor Sherlock have laughed that hard in over two years.


	12. All your perfect imperfections

Chapter 11

 

The spectacle of being served scrambled eggs and bangers for breakfast by Greg, with Now Wearing Pants Sherlock Holmes (currently looking through the folder Mycroft left behind like it holds the answer to life, the universe and everything) sitting across from John is odd to say the least, though not unwelcome. If anything, John hasn’t felt this good for a long time.

Not everything is healed, Sherlock is still hiding his knowledge and involvement about the case from him, and after his conversation with Mycroft, John is more curious about the cottage than ever (among many other things), but now that John knows more of the story surrounding Sherlock taking that fall and being dead for two years...John is still angry. Mostly angry that it happened at all, furious with that bastard Moriarty, heavy with the reality that he now knows what losing your best-friend feels like... _whom I love more than I ever thought possible._ John never truly comprehended how heavy the thoughts that Sherlock never truly cared nor valued or trusted him weighed on him until they were practically gone if not completely. He’s still trying to wrap his head around half of what Mycroft said, but there is no doubt in John’s mind that in Sherlock’s own messed up way, what he did was a selfless thing. A man who didn’t care wouldn’t have made a job like dismantling the criminal empire of James Moriarty potentially ten times more difficult than it needed to be (in order to save the lives of the few people who are close to him) if he didn’t care in some way.

No, not everything is healed, very little has actually been resolved, but at least there is one less weight on John’s shoulders.

Baby steps.

“John, I can hear you thinking from across the table.” Sherlock mutters, eyes still fixed on the content within the folder; which he has yet to share with either Greg or John. “It would probably be wise to stop before your small head explodes.”

Sherlock couldn’t sound more serious, but the barely there twitch of his lips gives away the teasing nature of the words.

Instead of feeling irked, John rolls his eyes and fails to suppress a small smile. It is as though once Sherlock truly believed he did receive John’s forgiveness, he feels more comfortable with engaging John the way he used to.

“Oi! My head is bigger than yours you know; it’s just all that...fluffy madness that makes it look larger than mine.” John retorts and forks up a bite of egg.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Greg sigh in exasperation as he serves himself (the plate he presented to Sherlock has so far gone uneaten beside the detective), but John can tell that he is secretly glad that at least some of the tension between the two has eased.

Sherlock sighs.

“Yes John, you have the biggest head of all the heads that ever headed the planet.”

John blinks for a moment.

“That makes no sense.”

Sherlock smirks.

“I rest my case.”

John gasps.

“You’re a dick.” John points his fork at the man.

Sherlock chuckles.

“Settle down boys.” Greg says as he walks over with his own plate of food. “Hey fluffy madness, you’re not going to eat?” Greg directs the question at Sherlock with a twinkle in his eye.

John nearly chokes on a bite of sausage.

Sherlock’s face scrunches up in distaste and he narrows his eyes at Greg. Without taking his eyes away, he raises his right hand and presses very hard at a point behind his right ear.

“Ow!” Greg yelps as his soul mark flares white hot. “Alright, alright, I’m sorry.”

John watches the small interaction with nothing but amusement. Sherlock nods, seeming satisfied. He immediately goes back to examining the content of the folder.

“So Sherlock, are you going to tell us what it was that Mycroft brought? Something to do with the case?” John asks with genuine curiosity.

Sherlock doesn’t answer for a moment, and then he turns a page...It is like a switch has been flipped. The fairly easy going, teasing nature of the domesticity the three men were experiencing extinguishes at the look on Sherlock’s face.

His eyes are dark and unyielding, the green grey of them turning stormier, colder as he continues to stare at whatever he’s seeing on the paper.

John puts his fork down and leans in toward Sherlock.

“What is it?” Johns every nerve is alight.

Sherlock’s wings are morphing to give the appearance of a sharpened edge again, tightening and spreading outwards. He is radiating tension and barely controlled wrath.

_John._

He doesn’t let it show when Sherlock’s voice echoes in his head, small and afraid...the sound so at odds with how Sherlock looks now.

_Sherlock what is it?_

_Nothing._

John frowns.

Greg and John shared a confused and worried glance before turning their attention back to Sherlock.

Then all at once, the ire is gone, the unease is gone and Sherlock is coldly, rigidly composed; betraying so little emotion he might as well be robotic.

“Bunkers.” Sherlock flips around the piece of paper he’d been staring at and settles it between Greg and John.

The two of them lean in towards each other to get a good look at the paper.

“Whoa...” Greg mutters under breath.

John’s eyes widen fractionally as he follows the words on the paper; a list of various abandoned WW2 bunkers in Sussex County.

John was not expecting that.

“Why would Mycroft give you this?” John asks.

Sherlock yanks the paper away and places it back in the folder. Sherlock’s elbows then rest atop the table with his long hands pressing against each other and lightly touching the cupid’s bow of his lips. His eyes are hardened and he is staring seemingly without reason at the wall behind John, not meeting his eyes.

“I found trace amounts of Nobel 808, or Explosive 808 underneath Eliza Kristoff's toenails. It was a plastic explosive used extensively by the SOE during the Second World War; it had the appearance of green plasticine, the traces of which I was able to spot as well as the very faint smell of almonds, also indicative of 808. This, combined with what I deduced about where Jeffery Coffer and Eliza Kristoff were forcibly held before being murdered, makes the theory of an abandoned bunker previously used by the SOE during world war two the most likely possibility.”

“The fact that there was no trace underneath her fingernails where there should’ve been, leads me to conclude that she, and likely Jeffery Coffer also were cleaned of potential trace evidence before being placed in the house. This action was not committed by the killer, she is too smart to overlook the fact that toenails can contain just as much potential evidence as finger nails, and it is obvious that she has her own set of loyal minions to do the dirty work for her. I imagine if the idiot forensic experts had the brains to check Jeffery Coffers toenails and not just his fingers, I would’ve found the trace elements a tad sooner. However, they are idiots and Dr James is very thorough when cleaning and autopsying a body, any bodily evidence at that point would’ve been useless. Because the evidence points towards a bunker used by the SOE, its location would not necessarily be known to the general public.”

“I loathe to admit it, but Mycroft has gotten better at hiding cameras it seems, he would not have known what I had found if he wasn’t ‘checking up’ on me-”A particularly bitter edge appears in Sherlock’s voice with the mention of Mycroft just as John groans at the thought of bloody cameras in his home.“-and the man has yet to get it through his cake stuffing face that his interference is not wanted...however, this-” Sherlock motions to the folder. “-does cut valuable time I could not afford to lose if I had tried to locate the bunkers myself.” Sherlock looks like the admission that he essentially needed Mycroft’s help, though he didn’t want it, causes him great pain to admit. “There are three potential bunkers it could be out of six on that list, all are within the proper distance, all used by the SOE, and all are far enough from each other that it could take too long to check them all out. We could get lucky find the correct one on the first try, but the risk is far too high . Additionally, since this woman is even using one of these bunkers, she likely knows the location of the others and has probably made plans to make it near impossible to know for sure which is the right one without great cost to us. I _must_ choose correctly.”

“Wow, just...shit.” John says in the wake of what Sherlock revealed.

Greg shakes his head and rests his palms against his face. John pinches the space between his eyes, trying to think...this woman is fucking insane, insane and smart, like Moriarty, that is a horrible combination. If the pattern of the last two murders is anything to go by, they don’t have long before the third person is killed. It might help if they knew exactly who this woman is...well, Sherlock knows.

John makes a noise of frustration. A thought occurs to him and he lifts his head to look at Sherlock. The latter of who has his eyes closed, quick and frantic movement obvious behind his eyelids.

“If the location of these specific bunkers was not known to the general public, how did she gain access to them? You mentioned a possibly military connection, but that’s a big leap from maybe knowing someone in the military to knowing the precise locations of bunkers used by the SOE during the Second World War. And why this specific area?” These are two points John couldn’t help but wonder about while Sherlock was talking.

Sherlock tenses briefly, but otherwise shows no reaction to John’s words.

“Observant questions John. Neither of which I have the answers to nor are they relevant at this point.” Sherlock utters in a monotone without opening his eyes.

John raises an eyebrow in disbelief. _Not relevant my arse._

Greg looks skeptical as well, though in his case he doesn’t know for sure that Sherlock is lying. John knows he is, because if he truly knows who this person is and the purpose beyond these senseless murders, than he bloody well knows the answers to those questions. John didn’t really believe he’d answer them, but he had hoped.

_Bullshit. Why the fuck can_ _’_ _t you tell me or anyone for that matter what you know about this psychopath?_

Now that John is fairly certain Sherlock not disclosing that information isn’t necessarily about not trusting or thinking John useless, there must be another reason and it is worrying John to no end what the reason could possibly be. He doesn’t like it.

The second Johns voice echoes in Sherlock’s head, his eyes snap open; fixing John with a glare.

 _You do not need to know._ Sherlock replies, eyes unmoving.

John clenches a fist.

_Maybe not, but I want to know. Why can_ _’_ _t you just tell me? What are you hiding that_ _’_ _s so bloody important no one else but the great Sherlock Holmes deserves to know?_

They’ve been involved in some pretty horrific cases before, even some connected with information that could prove disastrous for various governments and people if said info were released. Sherlock has never purposefully hidden the identity of the culprit from John before.

The sound of a large hand coming down and slamming on the table shocks Lestrade, but John himself doesn’t even flinch; though the widening of his eyes does portray his brand of surprise at what Sherlock just did.

With the wide flat of his hand giving him leverage, Sherlock pushes himself up and leans over to John. John fights the urge to move backwards at the sight of the rather imposing man.

_I do not have time for your ridiculous paranoia, I have a case to solve and I cannot, will not, make the same mistake twice!_

Sherlock is staring him down, and John is almost ready to retort with equal fervor when something stops him. Sherlock is trying to hide it, but whether it’s because of the bond or something else, John finds it a lot easier to read Sherlock’s emotions. And Sherlock Holmes is apprehensive. Of what exactly, John isn’t sure, but he can see it in the slight withdraw of Sherlock’s wings, the tension in his arms and the trepidation in his striking eyes as he waits for John’s response.

Instinct is telling John there is a much more profound reason for Sherlock’s determination in this case, that goes beyond solving the murders of people he knew, but in the face of Sherlock looking so...uncertain, uncertain of himself, the most brilliant man John has ever known, he finds his own uneasiness about being kept in the dark and need to know is secondary to Sherlock.

Experience has taught him that Sherlock will not divulge information unless he wants to, and if John continues to push he will only create more tension, potentially stall the case with his own agitation and push Sherlock away; he cannot afford to do any of those things. All he can do is keep an eye on Sherlock, and make sure he doesn’t do anything outrageously stupid. John will never forgive himself if he lets his own insecurities get in the way and any of them pay the price for it.

So, as much as he doesn’t like it, unless there somehow comes a point where lives are at stake if Sherlock doesn’t share, John will let it go and trust him instead.

John’s defensive posture melts away and he meets Sherlock’s eyes.

 _Alright. I_ _’_ _m sorry._ John finds he means it.

Sherlock looks surprised, and if the release of tension in his shoulders is any indication, he is relieved. He gives John a grateful nod and slowly sits back down in his chair.

_You should know that though evidence may suggest otherwise, I take no pleasure in withholding information from you._

The thought trails off in John’s head. John gives a sad sort of smile as Sherlock looks away.

_Hey._

Sherlock looks back at him with an adorably furrowed brow John automatically reaches forward and touches the top of Sherlock’s hand with his fingertips. John feels a shiver of pleasure ruffle his wings.

At this Sherlock’s eyes widen and zero in at the point of contact, he doesn’t move his hand away.

_So long as you don_ _’_ _t do anything too stupid, we_ _’_ _re good._

John pats Sherlock’s hand, once, twice feels a smile wanting to turn his lips. John lets his fingers linger for a moment more; he realizes what he’s doing and withdraws his hand. He hopes no one notices the faint flush on his cheeks.

Sherlock moves his hand from the table and rests it on his lap; he then looks at John with an almost offended expression.

_Don_ _’_ _t be ridiculous, I_ _’_ _ve never truly been stupid._

At this John laughs out loud. Sherlock looks pleased at the reaction.

“Um...either one of you mind telling me what just happened?” Greg looks between Sherlock and John, obviously confused.

Up until that point, John and Sherlock must have either forgotten or ignored Greg’s presence.

“Well...” John begins, not quite sure what to say.

Sherlock eyes John briefly before turning to Greg.

“Mood swings.” Sherlock says and shrugs noncommittally.

John snorts and Sherlock once more goes to examining the folder contents.

Greg rolls his eyes. “Tell me something I don’t know.” He mutters.

“The heart symbol was first used to denote love in 1250. Prior to that, it represented foliage.” Sherlock recites.

John blinks slowly; _he knows that but doesn_ _’_ _t know about the bloody solar system?_ He has the strangest priorities.

“Not what I meant Sherlock...” Greg groans.

“Really? Well do learn to be more precise Lestrade, details do matter in police work you know.” Sherlock quirks a small grin.

Greg narrows his eyes. “I am aware Sherlock, thank-you.” Greg responds with no small amount of sarcasm.

“Glad I could be of assistance.” Sherlock nods. He then stands up, folder in hand and strides out of the kitchen.

“What are you doing?” John hollers.

“Walking away!” Sherlock calls back before he climbs the stairs.

“What a smart arse.” John rolls his eyes and pokes at his now cold eggs.

Greg raises an eyebrow.

“You’re _just_ getting that now?”

John reaches over and gives Greg a playful shove before standing up and moving to tidy the kitchen.

John ponders over the last several minutes and thinks that maybe Sherlock wasn’t wrong when he mentioned mood swings.

At least now they have a better idea about where Jeffery and Eliza were kept, and where any other potential victims are currently being held, hopefully they’ll be able to find them in time.

 

***

 

It is only a few minutes later, Greg and John are tidying up the kitchen, Sherlock is doing some serious rummaging around in the guest room upstairs, when there is a polite series of knocks.

John frowns and lifts his hands from the soapy water; Greg pauses in the act of drying a frying pan.

“I’ll get it.” John dries off his hands and hopes with every fibre of his being that it isn’t Mycroft returning.

When he reaches the front door and opens, he sighs in relief when he sees Marcus there.

“Good morning John! I apologize for dropping in unannounced like this, just wanted to pop around and see how you gents were getting along with the case.” Marcus eyes John with a grateful smile as John steps aside to allow the older man entrance.

Today the coroner is wearing a tweed jacket with a bright red cardigan underneath, along with pure white trousers.

“No need to apologize Marcus, it’s good to see you.” John may not know the exact nature of his connection with Sherlock, but he has a rather delightful presence that John can’t help but find refreshing.

“You too my lad.” Marcus gives him a nod as John closes the door. “Oh! I nearly forgot, I brought these for Sherlock.” Marcus raises a canvas bag clutched tightly in one hand. “Where is that boy?”

John looks at the bag with confusion.

“Upstairs. What is it?” John asks with some amusement.

Marcus giggles and taps the side of his nose. “Aye that is a secret; let’s wait for Sherlock to come down himself shall we?” Marcus hands the bag to John, slips off his jacket and hangs it on a hook by the door.

Marcus takes the bag gently back from John.

“We could be waiting a while.” John notes with a wave towards Sherlock’s room.

“Mm. True.” Marcus nods.

He seems to be pondering something; John eyes him curiously when Marcus moves to stand at the bottom of staircase.

“Oi Sherlock Holmes! I’ve brought over some Piry-ships, and because you’re a stubborn arse, I’m going to assume you haven’t eaten yet. So you better be down in here in less than five minutes or I’ll drag you down. Get movin’ boo!” Marcus yells up the stairs.

John covers his hand to stifle laughter; Greg pokes his head out of the kitchen at the sound of Marcus yelling.

The sounds of Sherlock pacing abruptly stop.

“Ah, there we go. Shouldn’t be long now.” Marcus’s mouth widens in a smile of satisfaction as he moves towards the kitchen.

_Seriously, who is this guy?_

John follows and Greg watches the two of them in amusement.

It is at that point when John’s mind goes over what Marcus said.

John shakes himself of that thought for the moment.

“Piry-ships? What are those?” John asks as Marcus sets his bag down on the kitchen table.

Marcus chuckles. He pulls out a plastic container and pops off the lid, holding it out so Greg and John can see inside.

“Biscuits?” Greg says.

“Pirate ship shaped biscuits...” John murmurs. _‘_ _Initially he wanted to be a pirate..._ _’_

 _Oh god, this is too precious._ John laughs.

“Mhm. Shortbread. Sherlock has adored these ever since he was little; starting just before the wee genius achieved perfect speech at four, Piry-ships is what he called them. Genie used to make them for him but...well; I thought I’d try my hand at making them this time.” Marcus says with barely concealed sadness. He avoids their gazes as he places the container on the table with an aged and trembling hand.

“You’ve known Sherlock since he was a child?” John asks, eyebrows reaching his hairline.

Due to their interaction John figured they’ve known each other for a while, but knowing Sherlock knows this man from childhood...John isn’t sure whether to feel a bit hurt that Sherlock never mentioned him or amazed that Sherlock has managed to keep a relatively good repertoire with this man, not related to him, his entire life.

And who is Genie?

“Aye I have.” Marcus reaches out and takes a small biscuit from the container. A look of melancholy bliss lights up his face as he slowly chews the treat.

Greg gives moves forward to take his own cookie.

“Wow, these are excellent.” Greg says around a mouth full of cookie.

“Ta very much.” Marcus smiles.

John isn’t exactly hungry, but out of politeness he takes a cookie as well. As he chews he acknowledges that Greg is right, they are indeed excellent.

John is far too curious not to ask.

“Who is Genie?” So far neither Sherlock nor Marcus have given him a straight answer, and if the deep set frown and heavy expression on Marcus’s face is any indication there is probably a good reason for it.

Marcus sighs and pushes his glasses to a more secure position on his face.

“She was, is, very important to both Sherlock and myself.” Marcus takes another cookie. “Otherwise, I think this is a conversation you should have with Sherlock.” Marcus eyes John pointedly.

John feels bad for asking when he notices that Marcus is clearly trying not to cry. Whoever she was, and whatever happened...it obviously wasn’t good.

“Alright. I’m sorry.” John nods, letting the subject lie for now.

“Don’t apologize, it’s...nice to hear her name again.” He pats John on the shoulder.

Silence follows as Marcus, Greg and John all sit down at the kitchen table; the container of cookies between them.

It isn’t long before they all hear the sounds of Sherlock heading their way.

John’s brow rises in surprise. He leans over to Marcus.

“You have _got_ to teach me how to do that.”He whispers.

Marcus just laughs.

“I am not here for the...biscuits.” Sherlock’s deep voice suddenly looms over John from behind.

John looks up at him and notices that he is staring at the biscuits with a pained grimace, eyes wide in disbelief.

John frowns at the biscuits and looks back up at Sherlock; he is now staring out the window, the very picture of a man trying to assert some control; his wings are very still.

John’s eyes narrow in concern. He does nothing to stop it when his left wing reaches out and brushes Sherlock’s own; a shiver trembles through the man at the contact. A long fingered hand reaches out and lightly touches Johns shoulder. John feels surprise at the action, and a buzz of comforting warmth resembling a hot toddy flows through him.

John notices that in Sherlock’s other hand, he has the folder from Mycroft, though it looks much thicker than before.

Across from John, Marcus is looking at Sherlock with guilt.

“I’m-”

“Why?” Sherlock asks, voice bordering on harsh, interrupting whatever Marcus was going to say. He’s still looking out the window.

Marcus adjusts his glasses in what could be a nervous habit.

“You were never good at looking after yourself, especially when your mind was occupied, I figured maybe...you used to love these and I thought you would at least eat them if nothing else.” Marcus watches Sherlock looking pensive, elderly hands folded on top of each other.

Sherlock huffs.

“I have John; I don’t need your...sustenance offerings.” Sherlock grits his teeth, pointedly not looking at the biscuits. “Now tell me the real reason.”

The timing might be inappropriate, but John feels a rush at Sherlock’s words, of course, that is also mixed in with the typical Sherlock related annoyance at the man’s expectation – _still_ – to feed him when necessary, even though Sherlock has complained on more than one occasion about John’s ‘mothering’.

John chooses not to say anything this time.

This time Sherlock is looking at Marcus. If it weren’t for Sherlock’s hand still steady on John’s shoulder, John might’ve thought the two men have forgotten about his and Greg’s presence altogether.

Marcus nods.

“You haven’t contacted me, or responded to any of my calls since...” Marcus trails off and the lines on his face seem deeper somehow. Through his hand John can feel Sherlock tense and if possible the atmosphere in the room grows thicker. “I kept up with you though, your work and how you were doing, seeing you again a few days ago...I was so glad to see you boo, and I-”

“I’ve heard enough. Take them with you on your way _out._ ” Sherlock makes sure to emphasise that last word, takes his hand away from John’s shoulder and gestures towards the kitchen doorway. “And stop calling me boo, I am not a child anymore.” Sherlock’s tone is frosty to say the least. “Leave. I have work to do.”

Sherlock moves away to the opposite end of the kitchen table and begins laying out what looks like photos and a map; his movements rough and angry.

John leans back and crosses his arms, eying Sherlock in disapproval. Sherlock has never been subtle, but the way he spoke to Marcus was particularly cold. Of course John doesn’t know what they were referring to and for some reason the biscuits clearly triggered something in Sherlock...John is more concerned than ever.

Marcus sighs and hangs his head briefly.

“Alright, alright.” Marcus doesn’t sound upset, or even hurt, if anything his tone portrays nothing but sympathy.

Both Greg and John remain silent as Marcus slowly gets up from his chair. Instead of taking his biscuits and leaving, he moves over to Sherlock and stops just behind him. Sherlock freezes. “Take care of yourself my boy; remember I’m not the only one who cares about your well being.” Marcus reaches up and pats Sherlock’s shoulder.

To John’s surprise, Sherlock doesn’t rebuff him or even throw off the touch, he barely acknowledges him. It is only as Marcus is turning away when Sherlock nods. Marcus doesn’t notice, but John does.

When Marcus passes by John’s chair, biscuits in hand, John stands up.

“Are you ok? Sorry about that, the biscuits really were lovely.” John speaks, looking Marcus in the eye.

Greg nods and smiles in agreement.

“No worries John, it is I who should be sorry. Keep me apprised?”

“Of course.”

Marcus smiles.

“Ta.” Marcus looks at Sherlock, now back to moving photos around roughly, with a frown of concentration. He leans in towards John. “Don’t be mad at him.” Marcus says in a whisper.

John smiles sadly. “He’s always been a rude sod, that isn’t news to me. I don’t know what’s going on, but if the past two years have taught me anything...it is the lengths person will go to, to try and forget something they’d rather not remember.” That ache echoes in John as he remembers what those two years of believing Sherlock was dead was like...a hell he thought he’d never fully come back from. They are also memories that swirled unbidden as he watched the recent interaction between Marcus and Sherlock. It took John a few moments, but the way Sherlock reacted upon seeing those biscuits was akin to how John would react when he would see something that reminded him of Sherlock...of something that was so essential to him, something he lost. It is that knowledge that kept John from his old instinct of scolding Sherlock in that moment.

Marcus looks pleased at that answer, a tinge of melancholy reflects in his eyes.

“You’re a good man John.” Marcus clasps his shoulder.

“Thank-you sir.” _I try._ Marcus gives John a piercing look. “Um...what?”

“You should tell him.” Marcus says as he leans in closer to John.

John’s heart starts pounding. John quickly looks behind himself to see if Sherlock is paying attention...doesn’t look like it. _Could Marcus....?_

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” John responds a bit too quickly.

“ _John._ ”The look on Marcus’s face is scolding at best.

 _Geez, he_ _’_ _s worse than my own grandfather._ He thinks of retorting but something in him gives and he just sighs.

“I can’t.” If he sounds regretful, John pretends it isn’t there.

It is the first time he has consciously alluded to, out loud, his newly discovered feelings for Sherlock.

This time it is Marcus’s turn to sigh. He looks behind John at Sherlock, and then Greg (who has joined Sherlock at the end of the table). He nods and then let’s go of John’s shoulder, Marcus motions for John to follow as he exits the kitchen.

John feels a bit confused and uncomfortable with the route this conversation has taken, but he follows Marcus none-the-less.

Marcus stops at the front door and turns to fix John with a determined, though sympathetic eye.

“Why not?” Marcus crosses his arms, container of biscuits dangling awkwardly from one of his hands.

John is suddenly reminded of his grandfather giving him a lecture about his reticence of telling his parents about his decision to join the army. The comparison makes John want to spill all his secrets, like he would to his own grandfather (now deceased) ... _is Marcus a magician? Bloody hell._ John has never been one to discuss how he feels in detail, in some ways he and Sherlock are alike in that aspect, but there is something about this man...Maybe he really is Santa Claus.

“He’s Sherlock, I really don’t think this particular kind of...sentiment would be welcome.” John ends up saying; it is the truth at least.

Marcus looks annoyed.

“In my seventy five years of life experience, whenever anyone says bollocks like that, it is an excuse because they’re afraid.”

John’s eyes widen a little. Marcus sure is feisty for seventy five.

“Choosing _not_ to tell Sherlock that I...it just has nothing to do with me being afraid.” John inwardly groans, _oh don_ _’_ _t you sound bloody convincing._ Marcus simply raises an eyebrow. John sighs. “Besides, even if it...was about that, hypothetically, it would be a bloody miracle if Sherlock reciprocated.” Not to mention impossible.

“Like coming back from the dead?” Marcus counters with a grin.

_‘_ _One more miracle Sherlock for me, don_ _’_ _t...be...dead._ _’_

John doesn’t really know what to say to that.

Marcus’s expression suddenly turns grim. “Sherlock is like a son to me, his parents are good people but they didn’t always...understand his quirks, I watched him grow as a child and into a rebellious teenager...and even though I haven’t been a direct part of his life for many years now, there is one thing Sherlock Holmes has always managed to do. And that, is to surprise me.” Marcus puts down the box of biscuits on the stairs and puts on his tweed jacket as he speaks to John. “He is consistent and unpredictable in many ways. For this John...I’d bet my pound on the latter. Assumptions are often dangerous; Sherlock might just surprise you too.” Bag of biscuits in hand, Marcus opens the front door. “Of course, all of that is meaningless if you’ve already decided you’d rather live with the surety of never than the possibility of maybe.” Those beady golden eyes shine with humble wisdom many years bring.

The latter statement makes Johns hackles rise a little.

He crosses his arms and stares at Marcus with a glare of his own.

“I appreciate all you’ve said Marcus, but with all due respect, this is my business. Not yours.” John is surprisingly polite, but no less determined.

It would be idiotic to deny that much of what Marcus said has hit one or two nerves.

The older man nods slowly.

A gust of cool wind flows into the cottage through the open door.

“Of course, I do not mean to tell you what to do; your life is your life, no one else’s.” Marcus acknowledges, not seeming at all put off by Johns defensive posture. “I just know what it is like to lose someone you love. The pain I experienced at her loss...was unbearable, it still is. If we had never been together...yes I might’ve been spared that pain, but I also would’ve been spared what we had together and nothing is worth that.” Marcus adds with a last commiserating pat to John’s shoulder before he walks away, leaving a somewhat shaky John in his wake.


	13. Risking it all, though it's hard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still being awake at 5:00am clearly results in being inspired to post the next chapter a bit early...Hope you enjoy! :3

Chapter 12

 

John tries to put his conversation with Marcus out of his head as he heads back towards the kitchen. However, when he enters and notices Sherlock pinning a map (it is a map of Sussex county John notices) and various photographs around it to the wall of the kitchen, John feels his heart pick up speed in his chest.

_Damn it._

Sherlock is in the middle of pinning a photograph when he notices John’s appearance in the kitchen.

“Where did you run off too?” Sherlock rumbles, not turning around; the very tips of his wings drag smoothly across the floor as he moves.

 _Does he know what Marcus and I were just talking about? No, probably not, don_ _’_ _t be silly._

Greg looks at John curiously.

John tries to seem casual and shrugs. He heads in Sherlock’s direction. Greg doesn’t seem convinced of John’s nonchalance, though he doesn’t say anything.

“Just seeing Marcus out.” John says.

He considers asking Sherlock what all that was about with the biscuits, but ultimately decides against it...for now.

Sherlock hums, sounding bored, however a fragment of tension does linger in his wings.

John finds himself edging closer towards Sherlock.

“I have made good use of your printer and managed to find several high quality photographs of the areas surrounding the bunker locations.” Sherlock gestures towards various pictures pinned in individual collages over specific areas of the map, along with the information pages on the bunkers themselves. There are three, and in the center of each one is a photo of what looks like a bunker entrance; one is barely noticeable, in the middle of a forest and covered with overgrown trees and moss, another looks built into the side of a hill, the land surrounding it mostly flat brush, the last is also in a forest, though more sparse.

John notices that Sherlock has circled their locations with a red pen; all bunkers are roughly the same distance away. “Unfortunately, many of these photographs pre-date when the murderer would have started using them and the surrounding area. Same with the photos of the entrances themselves, courtesy of Mycroft.” Sherlock points to each one. “However, I am certain the answer to which is the correct bunker lies...here.” Sherlock’s voice trails off as he rests a hand in the center of chaos that is John’s former kitchen wall. “It is simply a matter of rearranging the pieces into a comprehensible pattern.”

John nods and moves to the side to get a better look. Greg is leaning against the wall, rubbing his chin between his thumb and forefinger thoughtfully.

John honestly has no idea what exactly they’re looking for...if none of these pictures are recent, there won’t be any signs of use, and how are they supposed to help? Of course, this is Sherlock Holmes; he could deduce someone’s life story from a single misplaced grain of salt. That’s not even mentioning the fact that Sherlock seems to have a stake in this case to a degree much greater than any other before.

Sherlock has stood back a fair distance and his hawk like eyes are darting from one location to the other in a manner that is almost hypnotic.

Greg shifts his weight.

“Shut up.” Sherlock mumbles.

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You were going to.” Sherlock adds with a thoughtful tap to his own lips.

Greg mutters something like ‘bloody bastard’ under his breath.

John leans against the edge of the kitchen table.

“If you didn’t want our input, what are we doing even here?” John asks; watching Sherlock seriously.

Sherlock walks forward, elegant wings trailing behind him and changes the placement of the paper listing the bunkers to the center of the map.

“To act as walls.”

_What?_

“Am I going to be offended if I ask what you mean?” John asks with a sigh.

Sherlock takes the comment as acquiescence to answer. “Though I prefer the tool of my own mind, I have found it to be quite useful to have someone to bounce ideas off of, like a wall. An actual wall isn’t always sufficient. I believe you already know this about me John.” John takes it as a good sign that Sherlock didn’t sound quite as annoyed as he could’ve.

Though being compared to wall isn’t exactly an ego boost.

“So we’re just supposed to stand around and listen to you talk?” Greg says dryly.

John shrugs. “Isn’t that pretty much what we do anyway?”

Greg guffaws.

John bites his lip to keep himself from laughing when Sherlock glowers at the two of them.

“Walls don’t talk.” Sherlock emphasises, turning his focus once more to the map.

“ _Magic_ walls do.” John mutters. Where this sudden desire to be cheeky is coming, John doesn’t know.

Sherlock makes an exasperated sound.

“Magic doesn’t exist John.”

John’s eyebrows hit his hairline.

“Sherlock, we have wings, communicate telepathically, we can fly and I can start fires while you can scalpel your way through nearly anything.”

Greg looks at John a bit wide-eyed.

“You two can communicate telepathically?” Greg moves to stand beside John.

 _Oh right, I haven_ _’_ _t mentioned that yet._

“Yeah, ever since our bond was sealed.” John coughs a bit awkwardly.

“Huh, cool.” Greg nods. “Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are now able to talk to each other inside their own minds...we’re all screwed.”

John snorts.

“That is reality John, not magic.” Sherlock says, ignoring the interaction between Greg and John.

“Whatever, you smart arse.” John rolls his eyes.

Sherlock shoots him a narrowed look over his shoulder.

“The _case_ John.” Sherlock utters firmly.

“Of course, my apologies.”

Sherlock appears satisfied and turns his attention once again to the wall of information.

“Now, as I was saying, we can only extrapolate based on the information we have. This woman is clever, but she has already made mistakes, she is not infallible. She specifically chose bunkers that only those affiliated with the SOE would have knowledge of, which alone narrows the field. These bunkers are not considerably far, in comparison to the others, from our current location. I am positive that was her intention. These three are the closest and therefore the most likely; as such I have discounted the others.” Sherlock recites, more to himself but loud enough for John and Greg to hear. “Her actions, her method, all point to her being emotionally unstable, therein lies her weakness, and why she is also particularly dangerous...she has nothing left to lose.” Sherlock’s voice steadily grows quieter as he speaks.

John grimaces.

“Who is this woman Sherlock?” Greg asks.

John looks at Greg and Sherlock takes a deep breath.

“There is not much more I can tell you.” Sherlock responds, unwavering, though his wing seems to twitch a bit closer to John.

John shifts uncomfortably at Sherlock’s words and tries not to feel frustrated.

“Why are you lying?” Greg counters.

It is Johns turn to tense. Sherlock whips around quickly; his a masterful mask of confusion.

“I am not lying.” And if John didn’t know otherwise, he might believe Sherlock.

 _Why are you lying, Sherlock?_ John asks himself.

“Alright fine, you’re not lying, you’re omitting.” Greg eyes Sherlock a bit suspiciously.

Sherlock narrows his eyes.

“A technicality.” Not denying then.

“Contrary to what you might think, I am a fairly decent police officer and I’ve known you for years, I can tell when you’re lying.” Greg pauses. Sherlock doesn’t stop his stare though his wings morph into a slightly defensive position. “I also know that trying to make you divulge secrets has less a chance of working than the Queen turning into a purple hippo, so I will ask this, do you have a good reason for hiding whatever it is? And I don’t mean a Sherlock definition of good reason; I mean one that we ordinary people would accept as good.”

Greg has clearly adopted his fatherly stance, not backing down from Sherlock’s intense stare.

John watches as Sherlock’s brow furrows in concentration, and finds himself curious as to how Sherlock will respond.

It doesn’t escape John’s notice when a dark tenor to the tone of Sherlock’s wings flares. John feels a bizarre echo of emotion, not his own, and defines it as...distress.

The feeling makes John worried, he moves a bit closer towards Sherlock as if on instinct and the tenor he feels fades slightly.

Sherlock straightens up and that all too familiar mask returns, as though preparing for the response he’ll get from his answer.

“No.”

Well at least he’s honest.

Greg groans and rubs a frustrated hand through his hair. John is both surprised at the honesty of Sherlock’s answer, he easily could’ve lied again and probably would’ve done a good job of it too, and put on edge by it. _No? What does he mean no? He doesn_ _’_ _t even have a good reason for it? At least not one we_ _’_ _d consider good anyway...bloody hell._

“You – ah hell, why bother. Let me clear something up for you, neither John nor I will abide you doing something enormously stupid –whatever the reason –like last time. Believe me, none of us want to go through that again.” Greg sounds resigned though there is a shaky undertone to his voice that betrays his concern.

John doesn’t bother hiding the same sentiment he is sure is on his face right now.

Sherlock looks surprised for a moment; he looks between Greg and John (his gaze settling a bit longer on the latter).

“I assure you I have no intention of faking my death again.” Sherlock says, side-eying John as though to gauge his response.

John tries to stop the flinch at the memories Sherlock’s words induce, but he doesn’t and Sherlock notices. If John had been looking at Sherlock instead of the wall behind him, he would’ve seen the flash of guilt in his eyes.

“Not precisely what I was asking, but still, I am glad to hear that.” Greg smiles a bit sadly and clasps Sherlock on the shoulder.

 _Me too._ The words have a heavy hollowness to them.

John had meant think those two words to himself, but if the quick movement of Sherlock turning to look at him is any indication, he didn’t.

John freezes. John has been getting the hang of keeping his private thoughts and those he means to communicate to Sherlock pretty well, but even though they are small relatively insignificant words...John knows a lot of the emotions associated with those memories followed them and without thinking John let it slip and Sherlock heard it.

John has no wish to appear weak in front of Sherlock.

John, cautiously, looks up at Sherlock. The man is watching him with...wonder, which is quickly soured with pain.

Sherlock looks _guilty_ and...uncertain. His eyes shift away from John.

Sherlock Holmes has never done guilt, and yet John has seen it on the detective more than once over the past couple of days.

Greg is watching the duo with a curious expression.

John coughs and looks away awkwardly. He waves a vague motion towards the map.

“I think we can rule that one out.” John moves forward and points towards the bunker entrance in the middle of thick forest.

Sherlock looks eager to follow the change of topic. Greg shakes his head and thinks to himself ‘ _idiots_ ’ before joining Sherlock and John at the wall.

“Hm. I know what you mean. Good catch John; I was thinking the same thing.” Sherlock unceremoniously rips the picture from the wall without bothering to unpin it first.

John smiles a bit at the praise.

“Sorry what?” Greg asks.

Sherlock sighs and hands Greg the now torn photograph.

“That one is in a particularly dense area of forest, making accessibility to it difficult if one is moving bodies, living or dead. The other two offer more accessibility while still remaining very well hidden. Of course she may have chosen that one for that exact reason, assuming I wouldn’t think she would inconvenience herself like that. However, I have good reason to believe that isn’t the case. Ergo, balance of probability suggests it is one of these two.”

Greg nods like he understands.

“Alright, makes sense, so...what are your thoughts on the other two?” Greg puts down the discarded photograph on the kitchen table and moves directly up to the two remaining bunker possibilities.

Sherlock doesn’t answer. He rests a long finger on the photo of the bunker lying north east, fixing it with a powerful stare.

Wall or not, John has no intention of just standing there and doing nothing. He’s no Sherlock Holmes but he’s not useless. So John unpins the bunker photograph Sherlock is currently not examining and holds it up to his eyes (simultaneously thanking his Watson genes for allowing him exceptional eye sight even in his forties).

This is the bunker also in a forest, south eastern Sussex, though in an area not quite as dense. Three waist high brick walls line the sides and arch over the front of a short flight of stairs leading downwards, the actual bunker entrance is not even visible due to the brick walls. It appears that there is a short tunnel at the bottom of the stairs that likely leads to the door.

John has actually been in a few in the far past, a tour he recalls when he was a kid. He remembers being fascinated while his sister Harry was terrified.

The reality that people are being held in one of them, horribly restrained and then murdered, the thought is chilling to say the least.

This picture was obviously taken during the autumn, like now, leaves blanket the ground in-between the sparse trees, and many of them are even covering portions of the brick wall. The very top of the walls are cement, cracked and discoloured after decades of being exposed to the weather. John doubts his observations are helpful, but when Sherlock bumps into him – accidentally –as he begins to pace, the sunlight shining through the glass back door of the kitchen illuminates part of the photograph and something catches John’s eye.

John moves towards the kitchen window and turns the photograph so the light shines upon it more brightly, eyes narrowing at a corner of the top of the brick wall mostly covered in leaves. If the sun hadn’t shined on it briefly, John is sure he wouldn’t have seen it. At first glance it looks like another crack in the wall and the faint curvature that is visible from underneath the leaves looks too...purposeful to be wear and tear. Could be nothing, but...

“John, what do you see?”

John jumps a little when Sherlock’s voices sounds demanding from directly in front of him, he didn’t even the notice the man approach. He is watching John curiously, clearly he noticed John’s intent observation of the photograph.

“I don’t know, probably nothing.” John shrugs.

“If you think it’s nothing, it probably isn’t.” Sherlock notes casually and yanks the photo from John.

“Oi!”

Sherlock flicks his eyes towards John, looking just a tad amused, before turning away and focusing on the spot of the photograph John was looking at.

John grumbles ‘ _what a dick_ ’ under his breath before moving to Sherlock’s side and waiting to see if Sherlock finds anything. On his other side, Greg does the same thing.

John doesn’t even notice when the edges of Sherlock’s and his wings meld together.

Sherlock is muttering unintelligibly, though if the sudden flare of hope in his eyes is any indication he does see something. His movements turn rather frantic when he reaches into the pocket of his dressing gown and yanks out his miniature pull out magnifying glass, the one John commonly saw him use during their cases together.

Sherlock sets it right on that point of the photograph and peers through it.

All too quickly, Sherlock blinks and he lifts his head to gaze out the window; his entire posture has gone, face too carefully blank but even he can’t hide the quiver of his wings and stormy set of his eyes.

“Sherlock what is it?” John asks, feeling a bit worried at Sherlock’s sudden change of demeanour.

_What did he see?_

The sound of John’s voice seems to do something to Sherlock. The detective adorns a look of pure fiery determination, drops the photograph on the ground and swiftly pockets his magnifying glass.

Something in his stance reminds John of whenever Sherlock bounds off without a word.

Not this time.

Sherlock is just turning away – presumably to run off and follow whatever his blood hound nose is taking him –when John quickly reaches out and grabs his left arm.

Sherlock looks back at him and tries to yank his arm away.

“Let me go John.” Sherlock says with forced calmness.

John tightens his hold.

“Not until you tell me what you just saw.” John growls.

“A character.”

John quirks a brow and his hold on Sherlock loosens.

“A...character?”

Sherlock nods.

John narrows his eyes.

“Care to elaborate?”

Sherlock sighs; clearly anxious to get away.

“A Japanese character.”

This time John does let his hand fall, he and Greg share a confused glance. Before either man can ask what the hell a Japanese letter is doing on a world war two bunker in England, Sherlock turns around and flips the folder over, exposing the back. He grabs a pencil from the table and draws something on the front.

 

モ

 

“What does that mean?” John asks. And of course the bloody genius knows Japanese, arguably one of the most difficult languages to learn.

Sherlock stands up and walks around the table, moving towards the exit. He pulls his mobile out of his other pocket and begins typing something with urgency.

“It doesn’t matter-” John’s fists tighten at that and he resists the urge to argue the point. “-the point is I know where we must go.”

Sherlock’s tone is final.

John feels a rush of relief and apprehension. Now they’re getting somewhere.

“Excellent, are we going now?” John responds, automatically moving towards Sherlock.

“ _We_ are.” Sherlock emphasizes the ‘we’ by pointing to Greg and then himself. John stops and looks at him with confusion.

“What are you-”

“ _You_ are not.”

John has never heard Sherlock speak with such strong resolve before. Greg looks at him in disbelief.

He is also fucking insane if he’s even thinking of leaving John behind again after...after last time. And what the fuck kind of reason does he have this time?

John feels himself growing angrier by the second.

“ _And why is that?_ ” John grinds his teeth.

Sherlock doesn’t move his focus from his phone.

“You are more useful to me here.” Sherlock replies.

“Yeah? How do you figure that? Because I’ve got to tell you Sherlock, if you think I’m staying behind, _again_ , while you go off gallivanting towards the hideout of a fucking _serial killer_ , you are truly mad!” John has pushed himself up in Sherlock’s personal space by this point; heart pounding, anger and hurt coursing through his system at Sherlock wanting to leave him behind.

“I’m not going alone John, Lestrade will be with me.”

“What the hell are you doing Sherlock?” Greg asks.

John ignores that and focuses on Sherlock.

“How is that supposed to make me feel better? I don’t bloody care if I’m more useful here or whatever bullshit excuse you’ve cocked up, I _am_ going with you and I swear, if there is any part of you that cares for me at all, you will _not_ stop me.” John speaks low, his voice threatening at best.

A new kind of fear sparks in Sherlock for a moment before vanishing.

Sherlock’s fingers clench tightly around his phone and he’s looking at John with helplessness stark in his face.

“I...I can’t, you can’t come with me.” The pleading nature with which Sherlock speaks stops John for a moment. “Please John.” Sherlock adds in a whisper.

 _Is he being genuine? Or just trying to make me agree to stay behind? What_ _’_ _s going on?_ If anything, Sherlock’s tone just makes John even more determined to go with him.

“Tell me why.” John says, a bit less angry before.

Sherlock hesitates and gazes at John with those gorgeous eyes that have John wanting to acquiesce to Sherlock’s request, but knowing that if he did John wouldn’t forgive himself if something were to happen and he wasn’t there.

“If I do, will you stay?” Sherlock asks, entirely seriously.

John considers for a brief second.

“No.”

Sherlock looks resigned, as if he’d been expecting that answer.

“I have no intention of allowing you to come with me; it would be easier for all involved if you were to just relent.” Sherlock shrugs.

John doesn’t know what to think. If this had happened before his conversations with Mycroft and Marcus, this would’ve cemented his belief that Sherlock thinks him useless. Now though...now John is just confused, and angry.

“Let’s get something straight here, I don’t know what the fuck is going on with you, but I would sooner be dead than allow you to walk into this kind of danger without me.” John gestures angrily at Sherlock.

There is something almost indignant in Sherlock’s expression before it is replaced by a creasing of his brow and confused twist of his lips.

“I don’t understand why you care so much.” Sherlock says.

John is taken aback... _wow, he...he really doesn_ _’_ _t get it does he?_ It’s amazing how the most observant and clever man on the planet is so obtuse when it comes reading the emotions of others, more so when they are directed towards him. Until now, John never fully comprehended how tragic that is.

John flounders for a moment, unsure what to say.

“Neither do I really-” And that’s only partially true. “-but I do, if I’m not going, you’re not going.” John knows there’s no real way he can 100% ensure this, but he can certainly try.

Sherlock huffs.

“I am not a child John Watson!” Sherlock growls out.

“Then stop acting like one Sherlock Holmes!” John responds loudly.

The two of them are stuck staring at the other, both incredibly stubborn men and neither one, for their own reasons, willing to back down.

Sherlock finally bites his lip and slams his hand against the wall _hard._ John doesn’t flinch.

“Fine. _Fine._ ” Sherlock spits out.

John is relieved that Sherlock relented, honestly he half-expected him not to. He doesn’t have long to feel satisfied at Sherlock’s submission however when Sherlock’s rumbling baritone echoes in his head.

_I have one condition._

John raises a brow and looks at the detective. John crosses his arms.

 _I_ _’_ _m listening._

Sherlock leans so close John can feel the hot moisture of his breath. As if by its own will his heart starts to beat faster, John refuses to portray precisely how affected he is by Sherlock’s closeness.

_If at any point, I tell you to leave, you must do so._

John can’t help but scoff in disbelief, Sherlock intensifies his glare. They both know that it is not in John’s nature to flee when there is danger, especially if Sherlock’s involved. John knows Sherlock knows that, he also knows that Sherlock even making this request is folly. So why is he asking?

Is Sherlock really that desperate for false reassurance? This...this isn’t like Sherlock. _What the hell is wrong with him?_

Regardless, John tells Sherlock what he wants to hear even though they both know it’s a lie.

_Alright._

Sherlock nods, looking almost grateful for the lie.

“If the two of you are quite through with your interruptions, we need to make our way to the bunker. This woman cannot be allowed to continue.” Sherlock glides out of the kitchen and storms up the stairs.

John rubs a hand down his face before turning to Greg. The latter had been watching the interaction between Sherlock and John from a leaning position against the kitchen wall.

“What was that about?” Greg asks.

“No bloody clue.” John replies honestly.

A few minutes later, John and Greg descend the stairs (fully dressed and equipped with their own guns) to find Sherlock anxiously pacing, hands in his pockets, dressed in old black jeans much too short for him, and a white shirt also too small. The bizarre effect of that is mostly offset by the elegance of his Belstaff coat and his long beautiful wings.

“Finally.” Sherlock mutters with annoyance.

He pulls his hands out and flings open the door.

Greg and John don their coats.

“Wait, wait. We’re going to storm a bunker we’re hoping is the right one, potentially rescue a victim – if we’re lucky – confront a killer, and maybe some of her cohorts...without any backup?” John points out.

If possible Sherlock’s anxiety to leave increases and a darkness clouds over his face.

“I have already contacted them. They will inform the police closest to the area. However we will still arrive before they do. Now _shut up_.” Sherlock says, patience all but gone.

He flees out the door and towards the car. Greg groans when he reaches into his coat pocket and realizes Sherlock has taken the keys.

John sighs, already feeling the familiar pin-pricking sensation of danger induced adrenaline pumping through his system. He slips on his shoes as fast as he can.

Since John is currently bent over, he doesn’t see the look of fleeting worry on Sherlock’s face before he gets into the driver’s side of Greg’s car.

He does see a folded up piece of paper, crinkled and rumpled, as if it has been read over and over again.

John figures it must’ve fallen out of Sherlock’s pocket. Greg is walking out the door, but John pauses to pick up the paper before standing up. He unfolds it and reads the few sentences upon it.

 

_You of all people must realize actions have consequences, Mr Holmes. I will take much pleasure being the instrument of yours. You destroyed me, and I will ensure justice is served no matter what you attempt. YKMIWKY_

 

John’s fingers tighten around the note, a note Sherlock has obviously read over and over again, a note clearly written by the killer (it would be obvious even if it weren’t for the presence of the same letters that were found on Coffer and Kristoff) with a personal vendetta for Sherlock.

This is just an inkling of whatever it is Sherlock is hiding, and if possible the implications have John even more on edge (what did Sherlock do to piss off someone so psychotic? Someone connected to Moriarty?), the words so flawlessly written send a wave of dread through John.

Without a thought, John stuffs the paper into his pocket, rushes out the door (closing and locking it behind him) and swiftly gets into the passenger seat of the car.

No words are spoken as Sherlock hurries away, if possible with even more speed than before.

John gazes at Sherlock, the long contours of his face, contorted with a fire John has only ever seen on him alone, dark curly hair flying around by the wind coursing in through the slightly open window to Sherlock’s right.

A feeling of trepidation overwhelms John as he watches the man and turns to look out the window. The words of that note replay themselves over and over in his mind.

Sherlock tried to stop John from coming with, and with the underlying threat in that note, John is even more relieved that Sherlock consented to his presence without John having to resort to anything drastic.

Whatever is waiting out there, at least John will be there alongside him. To protect, assist if he can, pull his bloody arse out of the fire if the detective decides to do something heroically stupid.

That reassurance however is not quite enough to quell the feelings being stirred up by those few sentences. It reminds him too much of Moriarty...and that is just another bad sign that has John’s stomach forming into unpleasant knots.

_When we arrive, stay with me._

John is shocked out of his reverie by the sound of Sherlock’s voice in his mind. John glances at Sherlock’s reflection in his window; he is still firmly facing the front.

 _What else would I do?_ John finds himself asking back.

Sherlock doesn’t say anything after that, and if the edges of his left wing makes its way over to Johns thigh, whether an unconscious movement due to the awkward positioning in the car or as a form of reassurance (for him or John?), well...neither of them say anything.


	14. All of me, loves all of you

Chapter 13

 

They’ve been driving for nearly three hours. It may be hard to imagine how in such a small country where there are so many people, that there are still miles and miles of nearly empty landscape. According to Sherlock they’re almost at their destination, apparently they’ll come to a turn off that will stretch a fair distance into the forest, but it is a dead end so they’ll have to walk the rest of the way; not too far, Sherlock says.

A forest has been zipping by their rapidly moving vehicle for several miles now, nothing but the cool sunlight illuminating the vacant country side to their left.

England really is an underrated country in terms of beauty. John’s mind is too preoccupied however to truly appreciate that. The countryside is a blur to his vision, both because of the racing speed with which Sherlock is driving, and though John may be looking out the window, he’s not really seeing anything...too distracted by thoughts of what may be coming, the note he found that Sherlock was obviously trying to hide, and Sherlock himself.

This sick and crazy woman –whom they’re now going to hopefully stop, maybe, or at least possibly rescue her next victim...same old same old –is killing people because of something Sherlock apparently did...what did he do?

_I can barely concentrate._

John is a bit shocked to hear Sherlock’s voice in his head so out of the blue. He shifts uncomfortably.

_Oh? Why_ _’_ _s that?_

Somehow John suspects that Sherlock expects John to know exactly what he’s talking about, if the slight sigh to his right is any indication.

_You haven_ _’_ _t stopped your persistent thinking since you entered the car; it_ _’_ _s giving me a headache. Now, tell me what_ _’_ _s on your mind._

John frowns at Sherlock and crosses his arms, feeling a bit indignant and certainly not intent on responding...for several reason.

Sherlock must’ve noticed John’s sour mood in response to his words, because like John did before, Sherlock shifts uncomfortably and tightens his hands on the steering wheel.

_If you want of course, I_ _’_ _ve heard it can help some people if they talk about their thoughts and...feelings to someone else._

John’s brow quirks in disbelief. The words are slightly stilted and uncomfortable in tone, but John is surprised to feel that they seem entirely genuine...especially considering the high-strung nature of Sherlock right now, the darkness looming around and before him caused by their intended destination (John assumes), Sherlock’s additional words are quite...unexpected.

And in spite of the storming nature of his own thoughts, John can’t help but feel a sort of fond amusement at Sherlock’s awkward attempt to be John’s sounding board.

Regardless, John suspects that right now is not the right moment to divulge his new found knowledge. If all goes according to plan, John might get his answers anyway...somehow, John knows that has less a chance of happening than Sherlock giving an impromptu Macarena performance. Neither John nor Sherlock have ever been lucky enough to have their cases go ‘according to plan’.

The thought causes a ray of remembrance to shine through his swirl of tension. Interesting how the most frustrating and tiring part of his life was also the most invigorating and wonderful.

_Adorable attempt at playing therapist aside, I_ _’_ _m sure my thoughts and feelings would bore you._

John freezes when he realizes what he just said – thought...fuck. John resists the urge to bang his head against the window.

Sherlock glances over towards John with a furrowed brow before returning his gaze towards the road.

_Firstly, you John Watson are one of the least boring people I know, most of the time. Secondly...adorable? I am not, nor have I ever been adorable._

Coming from Sherlock, that first part is a compliment and John chooses to take it as such, bizarre as it is. The second part...John curses his bloody mind for let slipping that word in the first place, however Sherlock’s indignant thought at being called adorable is, ironically, adorable – yes, John can freely admit that now, to himself anyway. It might be worth telling Sherlock the irony of his last thought just to see look on his face.

Still, it isn’t really the best time for John to tease.

_Whatever you say._

John shrugs and deliberately turns away so that Sherlock can’t see his face. He can hear Sherlock grumble something along the lines of ‘idiotic’ and ‘frustrating’. John finds himself smiling for the first time since finding that note.

The thought causes the cursive words to resound in his yet again.

_‘_ _You of all people must realize actions have consequences...You destroyed me, and I will ensure justice is served no matter your pointless efforts...YKMIWKY_ _’_

YKMIWKY...what does _that_ even mean? Does this woman intend to kill Sherlock in the end? John has never hated a possibility more, however intuition is telling John that killing Sherlock isn’t the point to all this...if it were, wouldn’t she have done it by now? So what is her ultimate objective?

_You_ _’_ _re doing it again._

John groans.

_Shouldn_ _’_ _t you be focusing on driving?_

_I can focus on many things at once._

John sighs, of course he can.

 _You_ _’_ _re driving way too fast._ John says in effort to deviate the conversation.

_Your attempt at distracting me with something you don_ _’_ _t actually care about is pathetic at best._

John taps his hand in a rhythmic movement on his thigh.

 _Can_ _’_ _t blame a guy for trying._ The quip falls somewhat flat.

 _You discovered something that is troubling you._ Sherlock’s baritone sounds in his head, entirely sure he is correct...he is of course.

John’s hand stops moving for a brief second. It takes effort not to react to Sherlock’s words. Though knowing him, nothing can prevent Sherlock from eventually deducing exactly what’s on Johns mind.

Sherlock’s eyes momentarily zoom in on the movement in John’s hand before increasing the speed of the car, casting his eyes with laser focus at the forest alongside them.

 _Have I now?_ John responds, nonchalant.

_Your heart rate has increased by a minimum of twenty beats per minute, you_ _’_ _ve been abnormally quiet, and you have a tell when you_ _’_ _re thinking hard about something, either tapping your thigh or deep breathing with particular frequency. You_ _’_ _ve been doing both of these, ergo, you are troubled._

_Smart arse._ John _doesn_ _’_ _t_ say that the increased heart rate has as much to do with his worry as it has to do with his close proximity to Sherlock. That has John feeling a bit more on edge, worried that if Sherlock deduces much deeper he’ll discover...

_Just...just stop it Sherlock. I don_ _’_ _t particularly feel like satisfying your curiosity right now._

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sherlock frown, obviously wanting to continue prodding. He doesn’t though. Sherlock nods and once again his focus is entirely on the road in front of them.

A minute or two passes, and it doesn’t escape even Greg’s notice that a new level of tension has risen in the car.

_I...my interest in knowing what you_ _’_ _re thinking isn_ _’_ _t solely because of my curiosity._

John swivels his head to look at Sherlock’s profile. He hadn’t been expecting Sherlock to continue what he thought was a dropped conversation.

John is more befuddled by the almost vulnerable nature of how Sherlock spoke.

_Oh?_

Sherlock’s frown deepens. He doesn’t respond. After a few seconds Sherlock turns his head away from John and out the window. John notices that the wing closest to John moved with Sherlock and is now shyly reaching towards the doctor.

John watches in surprise. He looks up at Sherlock as he allows his wing to reach out. The feeling of assurance and safety when the tips of their feathers touch is incredible. Sherlock appears to sigh in relief and John smiles in spite of himself.

Sherlock has never been a man to express his emotions, however on the rare occasions when he did – including recently, it was always done with actions rather than words.

John isn’t sure exactly what Sherlock is meaning to convey now, of all times, but the gesture warms his heart all the same.

Their bubble is abruptly popped when Sherlock slows the car down to a crawl, turning into the partially hidden dirt road.

“We’ve arrived.”

The words are ominous, though not quite as much as the dark undertone of the forest. The trees must thin out further down (or up, since they are on a slight incline), because right now, even though it’s still day, the trees are so thick and crowded that barely any light is shining through.

Sherlock, peering out the window, makes the observation that this road has been used frequently and by a van of some sort, due to the width of the tires. Other than that, he is completely silent.

John can feel an undercurrent of fury building in Sherlock, although his face and posture betray nothing except cool determination. John absently notes that ever since the bond, John has been able to detect Sherlock’s emotions more concretely than ever before.

Greg has tensed also, carefully scanning the forest as they drive. John himself is concentrating on finding that eye of the storm calm, a practice he perfected during his time in the army. His gun hand twitches.

It is time to focus entirely on their goal; investigate the bunker, possibly deal with this woman if she is there (though according to Sherlock she more than likely is), and if they’re lucky rescue whatever victims she may have locked away.

It doesn’t take long before they reach the end, by that point they have climbed up a significant distance, the area has leveled out and the trees are significantly thinner.

There is no sign of the bunker and John wonders how far they’ll have to walk before they reach it, and if the killer has anyone guarding the area. Once Sherlock stops the car, he doesn’t hesitate before getting out. Almost simultaneously Greg and John get out also. Sherlock tosses Greg his keys before slamming his car door closed and scanning the forest with falcon eyes.

John and Greg have moved to stand beside each other, both of them preparing their guns accordingly, waiting for an indication for which direction they’re headed.

 

Everything around them is surprisingly silent, barely the tweeting of birds or the scuffle of other wild life. The loudest sound is the breathing of the three men.

Sherlock knows which direction the bunker lies, however he is confident he can find a shorter route to get there. He quickly spots a point between two trees where activity has recently occurred, faint scratches on the bark, broken branches and fallen leaves naturally moved off to the side by heavy footsteps.

Sherlock is vigilant for any sound or sign that will signal someone’s approach while he calculates the various routes he could take in order to reach his destination. Luckily, though he hates to give Mycroft any credit especially now, Mycroft included a detailed map of the areas specific to the land surrounding the various bunkers within the folder he left to Sherlock. That, plus his extensive knowledge of all the forests in England, including soils and vegetation unique to each one, makes devising the shortest route to the bunker hardly difficult.

One thing Sherlock didn’t anticipate, throughout his unplanned return and the case, is the amount of effort he would have to put into suppressing his emotions, distracting and persistent things, many of them caused by the doctor standing five feet behind him.

Sherlock meant what he said to John not long ago, he can think of several things at once. Often does, even if he would rather not. When Lestrade confronted him about his supposed romantic inclination towards John, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get the idea out of his mind. An idea he admittedly had to crush more than once since his acquaintance with the remarkably interesting ex army doctor. Sherlock had been determined to write off his feelings towards John as admiration, or interest piqued in the wake of John being one of the few people to surprise Sherlock on a semi-regular basis. John is deceptively ordinary; normal by all accounts and yet...yet there is a quality to him that Sherlock can’t quite place that makes him unique. Perhaps that is why Sherlock finds him interesting.

Sherlock has always had a passion for scientific truth; soul mates, soul magic and love are three things that cannot be fully quantified by science. Time was Sherlock would’ve said that love is a combination of pheromones, chemicals and neurons rather than anything else. However, given his experiences of the past two years...Sherlock has had to, if not change than adapt his assumption. Love _is_ a combination of pheromones, chemicals and neurons; however it is something else also, because it originates in the soul not the mind.

The event that sparked that particular revelation was indeed the conversation he had with Lestrade. His words sparked a chain reaction of thought within Sherlock. Sherlock believed himself to be incapable of love, loyalty and dedication perhaps, but not love. He never allowed himself to entertain the possibility that he might just be as primal and foolish as everyone else. The last time he thought he felt love, of any kind, it affected him in a way he never thought possible. So much so that he firmly believed, for a long time, that love was nothing but a weakness, a defection that inevitably brought nothing but pain and destruction to those who embraced it. How could anyone covet something so inherently destructive? That is a question Sherlock has never been able to find an answer too.

And then he met John Watson, recently invalided from Afghanistan, psychosomatic limp, bearing signs of soul mate death, and so incomprehensibly fascinated by Sherlock and his ways deemed insane and psychopathic by many.

Love is something that can be at least somewhat quantified by science, it is partially a biological function, but where biological function is for the most part logical (as the name suggests), love isn’t. It is a thing that is both scientifically quantifiable and yet at the same time it isn’t. That is the thought that went through Sherlock’s mind when Lestrade confronted Sherlock about his own feelings and Sherlock had yet another revelation. Love is John. John is love. Sherlock has never been able to adequately quantify John Watson; the lurking moments of surprise that Sherlock could never entirely predict kept that from being possible. Yet at the same time John at his surface is no more fascinating or interesting than any other Englishman in his forties. His living habits are predictable; his taste in jumpers is quite frankly a ghastly abhorrence. His tendency to express compassion to total strangers and yet possess the ability to shoot a moving target without hesitation are facts both inherent to the doctor and as such unsurprising to John’s personality, and yet the combination of them shouldn’t exist in the first place.

John Watson is an enigma. A mystery solved that can never actually be solved. It is a paradox that Sherlock has pondered, especially within the last few days, and also the reason Sherlock knows he could never get bored of John Watson.

John is so much like the frustrating nature and reality of what people call love, destructive, ordinary, predictable, unpredictable, quantifiable, indescribable, persistent, forgiving, unforgiving, wolf in sheep’s clothing, capable of compassion and brute force, frustrating, annoying, powerful... _John._ Therefore, if John is love, and Sherlock finds himself unable to let go of the doctor, no matter how much his rational mind may argue the point, and finds himself continuously drawn to the man, thinking about him more than anything else...doesn’t that all mean that what Sherlock feels for John is love? Loving love, how disgustingly cliché and romantic of him. Yet when Lestrade sparked that chain reaction, Sherlock had been unable to deny it to himself.

He can admit within the most hidden and darkest corners of his mind palace that the idea of loving John, in a way he hadn’t wanted to for a long time, and being deep soul mates with him, terrifies Sherlock to his very core. And no matter how many lectures he or Mycroft gives himself on the dangerous destructive nature of love, it hasn’t made a difference. It hasn’t prevented Sherlock from thinking that John is the most beautiful human being he has ever seen, and he is sure on the entire planet if not universe; it hasn’t prevented Sherlock from indulging in his comforting sweet wool smell when he has had the rare occasion to embrace him. It hasn’t prevented Sherlock from dreaming, when he does sleep, dreaming about _him_ ; moments of intimacy, both delicate and passionate in every sense. These are feelings and thoughts that even Sherlock knows goes beyond the ordinary bounds of platonic friendship.

Sherlock doesn’t even want to think about the overwhelming panic he felt, more than once since his return, at the idea that John might never forgive him or want to see him again. The sheer relief he felt when John said ‘I forgive you’ made Sherlock want to cry (he resolutely didn’t though). In the few moments during his necessary exile away from London, ridding the world of Moriarty and his disease of an empire, Sherlock would find himself thinking about 221b and John; their cases, experiments, the adrenaline, the danger, the surprisingly domestic in-betweens, even the almost daily arguments. He would always feel an ache when thinking about his life, his home, and he would mostly contribute the feeling to malnourishment or something else, anything but the idea that he misses John so deeply that he could feel the ache in all his extremities.

Of course, once Sherlock saw John for the first time in two years, and that ache returned...he didn’t know what to call it. That is, not until all the pieces connected into a picture Sherlock couldn’t deny or rationalize away no matter how hard he tried.

Sherlock loves –is _in_ love with John Watson, a man who in Sherlock’s opinion, perfectly embodies the very nature of love.

Sherlock has only sparingly thought of his own sexual orientation. Evidence and human behaviour suggests that sexuality is often fluid, and there is no one orientation or identity that is normal or regular to the human condition, despite what ignorant fools insist. Sexuality, gender, or lack thereof, is a vast and diverse aspect of human beings. Sherlock has educated himself on many, if not all, possibilities. He has found that knowledge has been significantly helpful on cases.

Sherlock has been attracted, in many ways, to people before, mostly men, however he has never felt the desire to pursue anything. John is the first person Sherlock has had any significant feelings for, which include want and desire. However, when he thinks of loving and being attracted to John, Sherlock doesn’t believe that John being male is necessarily a part of it. It is who John is, therefore a part of what Sherlock loves about him. If John were anything other than a man, would Sherlock still love him? Of course. John is _John._ A penis and a flat chest are coincidental.

John may never reciprocate Sherlock’s feelings, to be perfectly honest Sherlock can’t see how that is possible. Sherlock is a cruel, callous man, barely worthy of John’s presence as it is, how could such a man as John love a man like him? A man who values his work above all else, who displays strong sociopath tendencies and who couldn’t really care less about people in general. No, it is impossible, and he will have to be careful to make sure John never suspects his feelings for the doctor go beyond friendship. The idea of not having John’s love is an unfortunate reality, the idea of not having John’s friendship is unfathomable. It may make him weak, but John has become intrinsic to Sherlock’s life, and he cannot lose him.

The idea of possibly losing him again...is one that Sherlock refuses to even ponder. For he is sure he would crumble if he allowed himself to even imagine John being... _gone._

Sherlock’s mind works at a speed unlike any other human being, barely seconds have passed since a part of Sherlock’s mind went down the twin roads of John and love while the other part was calculating a route through the forest.

He has found one.

Sherlock is about to call out to Lestrade and John when he feels his mobile chime in his pocket. Sherlock heaves a frustrated breath and pulls it out, quickly unlocking the device and reading the text.

 

_You_ _’_ _re being foolish._ _–_ _MH_

 

Sherlock glares daggers at his phone.

 

_If I_ _’_ _m a fool, you_ _’_ _re a troll living under a bridge._ _–_ _SH_

 

Another text comes before Sherlock can put away his phone.

 

_I know you blame me for what happened, I admit I should not have been so hasty in my judgements. However, wouldn_ _’_ _t it be wiser to wait for the police to arrive before venturing forward?_ _–_ _MH_

 

_Don_ _’_ _t pretend you aren_ _’_ _t sending your own minions as well; besides, waiting for the police to arrive is like waiting for snow in summer. I cannot afford to waste time waiting when she could be getting away or killing another one of my contacts._ _–_ _SH_

_I see._ _–_ _MH_

 

Sherlock narrows his eyes. Those two words from Mycroft say more than any spiel the cake-eating fat man has already said.

 

_What?_ _–_ _SH_

_Nothing brother dear, I am merely admiring your intense dedication to tracking down this woman purely because she is responsible for_ _“_ _the death of your contacts_ _”_ _._ _–_ _MH_

 

The sarcasm is near leeching from the phone. Sherlock growls.

 

_Don_ _’_ _t. Call. Me. That. You know precisely my reasons for getting to her before she proceeds with her plan._ _–_ _SH_

_I know. Good luck brother dear._ _–_ _MH_

 

Sherlock grimaces at the repeated endearment. Sherlock is about to angrily shove his phone away when there is another text.

 

_I know you_ _’_ _ll keep an eye on John; the man is almost as foolish as you. I wouldn_ _’_ _t put it past him to perform a heroic act of some sort and take a bullet for you should the opportunity arise. I would hate to deal with the fallout should he perish._ _–_ _MH_

 

Sherlock tenses at Mycroft’s words.

 

_I would sooner kiss you than allow John to die._ _–_ _SH_

 

Sherlock could not feel more conviction as he types those words even if he tried.

 

_What a horrifying thought._ _–_ _MH_

 

_Precisely. Now, go stick your head in a hole somewhere. I have a killer to apprehend._ _–_ _SH_

_Take care of yourself too, whatever you may think of me now, you_ _’_ _re still my brother._ _–_ _MH_

 

 _Only because biology makes it so_ , Sherlock adds in his head. Sherlock resists the urge to throw his phone harshly against a tree and instead puts his phone away without responding.

“Are you alright?”

John’s amber honey tone is music to the silence surrounding Sherlock, perhaps an F sharp major scale.

Sherlock takes a moment to mask his emotion and turns around, a hum of deep burning sparks in Sherlock when his wing brushes against John’s torso.

John is looking at Sherlock with concern, eying the phone in his pocket before looking back up at Sherlock’s eyes...the same colour as the wings adorning Johns back.

“Of course. I believe I have found our route to the bunker. We will have to be quiet and alert; however the journey should take no more than ten minutes at the most. Follow me and do _exactly_ as I say.” Sherlock narrows his eyes at John for the last part.

Mycroft is right about one thing, it is in John’s nature to be heroic. John says he doesn’t want Sherlock to do something reckless and stupid, what Sherlock didn’t say is that if _John_ attempts to do either one of those things, he will see what Sherlock Holmes truly looks like angry.

John appears to consider Sherlock for a moment.

“Lead the way.”

Sherlock doesn’t miss how John didn’t capitulate to doing exactly as Sherlock says, but to save time Sherlock doesn’t argue the point and merely nods at John, and at Lestrade standing right behind John.

“Step where I step.” Sherlock rumbles out.

He turns back around towards the forest and begins the walk to the bunker, he hears John and Lestrade following.

Sherlock has never felt more rage, or such a strong desire to replicate Jack the Rippers style on a living person than he has towards this particular killer.

There is nothing Sherlock won’t do to protect John Watson.


	15. You're my end and my beginning

Chapter 14

 

As Sherlock predicted, they reach the bunker in less than ten minutes.

The brick walls permeate the piles of fallen rotting leaves, the stairs aren’t quite visible from their position but John can see the initial cement step that leads to them, and subsequently the bunker entrance.

Sherlock stopped them when the bunker was just in their sights, surveying the area with a frown.

They’ve just been standing here, behind a cluster of trees, for the past few minutes. John has his gun drawn in reaction to Sherlock’s demeanour and the rising tension in his wings. Greg is in a similar position on the opposite side of Sherlock. He and John share a confused glance. There is no sign of trouble, no one is around, it’s still silent, and given the sparse nature of the forest around them, the sunlight is more obvious here, allowing nearly the entire area to be illuminated.

John is edgy and anxious. Sherlock hasn’t moved and is merely staring at the bunker with a scowl; wings flaring slightly at his sides.

“Wha-” John begins to whisper.

Sherlock swiftly holds up a hand in front of Johns face, signalling him to keep quiet. John nods.

There is indeed no sign of anything around the bunker...nothing. That must be what has Sherlock on edge. John half expected for there to be at least a guard or two, no matter how unlikely it is that anyone would come out quite this far, it would just be good precautionary sense. And this woman seems clever enough to account for any possibility.

The fact that there is just nothing around...is worrying now that John thinks about it. Greg appears to share the same concern.

Sherlock leans a bit forward, eyes narrowing on some point in the distance. He reaches into one of his many coat pocket and tugs out a miniature pair of binoculars. Sherlock settles them on his eyes and focuses them near the bunker.

John leans slightly around the tree to see what Sherlock could be looking at.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

 _What is it Sherlock?_ John asks.

John notices Sherlock’s hands tighten on the binoculars and he slowly lowers them, eyes unwavering from the area they were pointed at. He wordlessly hands them to John. John transfers his gun expertly to his right hand and takes the binoculars from Sherlock. He puts them up to his eyes and the warmth of Sherlock’s hand guides their positioning.

John finds himself looking at a closer and clearer picture of the steps leading down to the bunker, which he can now see, though only partially. Not just because of the angle and distance, but also because that area is incredibly dark. The walls block out the sunlight at this time of day.

 _Fifth brick from the corner of the inner wall closest to us._ Sherlock’s deep voice commands.

John finds the spot pretty quickly. At first he isn’t sure what Sherlock wants him to look at, then he sees a discolouration on the aged brick; it’s dark, and there are several small droplet shapes of it...

_Blood?_

Sherlock gives a slight nod beside him.

_It appears to be._

_It looks new._ It is quite far away, but from what John can see the blood has barely begun to congeal.

_Very new, the blood spatter pattern suggests it was a punch to the jaw; the recipient was crouched low when hit. The newest victim most likely. They were out here possibly only a few minutes before we arrived, however there are no signs of anyone leaving the immediate area recently, so they_ _’_ _re either here and we can_ _’_ _t see them, or they_ _’_ _re inside._

John goes over Sherlock’s words, frowning at the blood. He takes the binoculars away from his face and hands them to Sherlock. Sherlock pockets them quickly.

 _You don_ _’_ _t think they_ _’_ _re inside_. John ponders; Sherlock didn’t sound all that convinced when he thought those last few words.

 _No. There are indications of at least two different people walking through here, I can_ _’_ _t definitively tell if one of them was the woman we_ _’_ _re looking for, but there was another person bound and being dragged as well. All of this happened just moments ago. They are here, hiding, they must know we_ _’_ _re here...why haven_ _’_ _t they done anything?_ That questions sounds more like Sherlock was speaking to himself than John.

John doesn’t like this. He glances over at Greg; the man is searching John’s face for any clue as to what’s going on. John shakes his head and mouths ‘blood’, ‘new’, ‘they’re here’, and ‘somewhere’.

Greg tenses. He immediately begins looking around, careful to not move.

_They_ _’_ _re waiting for us to approach, to make the first move. It_ _’_ _s the only logical solution for this silence._

John looks back at Sherlock. Sherlock has straightened his posture and is resting a single hand on the tree closest to him. His manner is indicative of a man who is unsettled and trying not to be.

 _What do we do?_ John asks. The area provides some cover, it would be difficult but not impossible to move closer unseen, but the sheer amount of fallen leaves would make it impossible to be silent.

Various possible tactical solutions flit through John’s head. None are proving to be overly helpful in this situation.

He feels a heavy hand drop on his shoulder. Sherlock is staring into his eyes, purposefully holding John’s gaze without blinking.

 _You and Lestrade stay here. I_ _’_ _m going to approach._ _Alone._

The words boom in John’s head. John scrunches his face in disbelief.

 _You can_ _’_ _t be serious!_ John protests.

Sherlock’s gaze doesn’t waver.

_I am very serious. Trust me, please._

John wants to protest. The idea of letting Sherlock walk out there alone, knowing that there are fucking snipers involved in this case, has John’s entire mind screaming. Sherlock may be prone to making reckless decisions, but he isn’t stupid. He must have a plan.

An edge of pleading enters Sherlock’s eyes and the hand on John’s shoulder tightens.

John doesn’t like it. In fact, he hates it, but...with a heavy sigh, John gives a quick nod.

_Alright, but you_ _’_ _re not going out there without a plan._

Sherlock looks relieved at John’s compliance.

 _Of course I_ _’_ _m not. I already have one; all you have to do is move fifteen paces to the left, take cover wherever possible and move quickly. Lestrade will do the same thing on the right. In jargon terms, flank the small clearing surrounding the bunker._ John is starting to see where this is going, he nods to show he’s paying attention. _The two of you will have to move as swiftly as possible, you_ _’_ _ll know when to do this, and you will be unable to not make noise, however I will try to make that less of a problem_ _–_

 _How?_ John looks around.

 _Let me finish._ Sherlock gives John a scolding look. _Once you are in position, signal to Lestrade and he will signal to me to let me know you_ _’_ _re both ready. After that, wait for me to signal with my hand and you both should know what to do; talking to you like this may potentially distract me._

John nods to indicate he understands, though he’s still confused as to what exactly Sherlock is going to do.

_What are you_ _–_

_No time._

Sherlock lets his hand fall and turns around.

 _Wait!_ John quickly calls out. Sherlock stops and looks at John. John’s heart rate has picked up, and he’s floundering. He was a soldier, why is he feeling so scared now? _Be careful._ John ends up saying.

Sherlock quirks a brow.

 _You as well John._ His voice quietly resounds in John’s head.

Without another word, or thought, Sherlock turns around and begins slowly walking towards the bunker. Greg looks like he wants to follow but John quickly motions for him to stop, and as fast as he can he taps a splayed palm on his arm three times and points to Lestrade’s right in a curved motion and mouths ‘soon’.

Obviously realizing that now is not a time to ask questions, Greg indicates that he understands with a quick jerk of his head, and crouches low waiting for John to point out when to start moving.

John is tense as he watches Sherlock moving. There is no sign of anything yet. Sherlock is so sure they’re out there though.

‘HERE I AM!” Sherlock yells, very loudly, spreading out is arms on either side along with his wings.

At that moment John gets what Sherlock meant when he said ‘you’ll know when to do this’. It isn’t the best solution, but they don’t have much choice right now. As soon as Sherlock starts yelling again, without pausing, John swiftly motions to Greg and the two begin moving, as fast as possible without making a whole lot of noise and keeping cover.

“THIS IS WHAT YOU WANTED ISN’T IT? ME, HERE, ALONE! DON’T BE FOOLISH! COME OUT HERE AND FACE ME! YOU WANT ME TO FEEL PAIN? I’M HERE NOW! IF YOU PROMISE TO STOP YOU CAN HAVE ME!”

No one should be able to sound that loud outside, but this is Sherlock.

John knows Sherlock is just trying to make as much personal noise as possible to give John and Greg cover while they move, since Sherlock doesn’t know exactly where the people are, yelling constantly is a plausible way to make noise without it necessarily seeming odd. However, John feels that Sherlock isn’t making up random words to fill the silence, what Sherlock is saying may not be the plan, but John can feel in his gut it is the truth.

John would rather die than let Sherlock give himself up.

Greg and John are lucky that this area is also rocky, keeping their footsteps to rocks more often than leaves, the two are quickly in the positions Sherlock told John they should be in; John crouching behind a fallen tree, and Greg behind a bolder, directly across from each other with Sherlock in the middle.

They still can’t see anything and John is quite frankly surprised no one has come out yet.

John motions to Greg to let Sherlock know. From a distance John can see Greg nod and touch the top of his right hand.

Sherlock gives no indication that he felt anything, but John can feel a slight release of tension through their bond.

“I KNOW YOU DESPISE ME SOPHIA! IF I COULD CHANGE WHAT HAPPENED I WOULD!” Sherlock yells once last time.

_Sophia? Who_ _–_

John’s thoughts are abruptly halted as a woman wearing a long brown coat, a dark green shirt and very worn trousers walks up from the crest of a hill none of them can see behind. She has flowing ginger hair, her face is scattered with freckles and overall she is pleasant to look at (John thought so when seeing her at the morgue) and at first glance no one would expect her to be a serial killer (which is often how it goes). Her eyes though are blazing with fury, piercing, hate-filled vibrant iris’s burning holes in Sherlock’s direction.

John notices she is holding a sniper rifle, incorrectly, in her right hand. Behind her a tall man follows, short cropped hair, military build, and he is dragging a naked tied up young man behind by a rope.

Rage surges through John and he tightens his grip on his gun.

John resists the urge to leap out from hiding and protect Sherlock from this vengeful woman.

She stops only a few feet from Sherlock. From this angle John can’t see Sherlock’s face.

“You’re lying. You wouldn’t change what you-” This woman, Sophia, her voice is clear and intelligent; her hands are clutching the barrel of the rifle in a white knuckled grip. “-did. You _enjoyed_ it, _William_ , since apparently we’re on a first name basis now. I’m glad we get to meet in person.” Sophia smirks.

 _William? What the hell?_ Is that an undercover name or something? No, because in the note she referred to him by his last name, what...

Her expression turns darker as he spots Sherlock’s wings.

“I took no joy in what I did during those two years, satisfaction perhaps.” Sherlock says with a shrug, though the tenseness of his wings shows his attitude to be anything but casual. Sherlock clasps his hands behind his back.

“Is there a difference? It doesn’t matter, when you killed him you killed me, and the least I can do is even the score. And with those-” Sophia points the gun at Sherlock’s wings, John nearly jumps towards him right then. “-my suspicion is confirmed, though I didn’t really need it to be. All the signs were there, it barely took any research. You have a weakness Mr Holmes, these little deaths?” Sophia gives a hollow laugh, motioning around her and towards the whimpering man being tightly held onto by the fierce looking man behind her. She’s insane, but there is something about her that feels...more than simply devoid of humanity, as though a part of her is missing. “They are merely a teaser, true I could’ve skipped to my ultimate purpose, but the knowledge that you’ll know its coming, scrambling to prevent it, and then realizing there is nothing you can do...Mmm.” Sophia’s gun hand is trembling; the intelligence brimming in her eyes is retreating in the wake of her obviously instability.

Sherlock takes a step towards her – _what the fuck are you doing?!_ John thinks to himself.

He is deceptively calm; there is a bulging anger and fury beneath that countenance that John can feel through the bond, for the first time however John can feel something else...sympathy? What? Sherlock hates her and yet feels sympathy for her? The woman who kidnapped people he knew, and hurt them in ways that has John feeling beyond enraged?

John is lost, but he keeps himself focused on the scene before him, waiting for Sherlock’s signal.

“I had no choice, he was the last major piece of the web and if I let him live, the consequences would’ve been severe. It was not personal.” Sherlock utters, just loud enough for John to hear though quieter than when he spoke before.

Last major piece of the web...so this does have to do with Moriarty, albeit indirectly.

Sophia doesn’t move away and she glowers significantly at the taller man in front of her.

“I don’t give a fuck, no matter your intentions, reasons, I don’t care if you did it in self defense or to protect someone else, the fact remains you _killed_ him! And I will never get him back!” Sophia screams in Sherlock’s face, angry tears rolling down her face.

If this woman weren’t the cause of Sherlock’s obvious distress and the deaths of those people, John might feel sorry for her.

“No, you won’t. And if by some miracle you manage to succeed with your...endeavour, you still won’t have him and any satisfaction you get by doing this will be fleeting. Really, it would be a miracle if you ever get that far. You may have partially accomplished the stepping stones to your goal, but it wasn’t flawless, you’ve made mistakes and you will continue to make mistakes, especially if you continue to keep the company of brainless ex-military oafs dishonourably discharged...although, there is a certain irony to that isn’t there?” Sherlock’s voice is low and threatening, he flicks his gaze briefly to the man standing behind her.

Sophia snarls, her eyes focused on Sherlock, cold fury brimming over. She doesn’t make a move however, although the same can’t be said for her cohort. The man growls deeply at Sherlock’s jibe, looking on the verge of dropping the young man he’s holding prisoner (currently watching the proceedings with fear in his eyes) and rushing at Sherlock.

At the man’s movement, Sophia – without turning around – reaches behind herself and holds out a hand; staying him.

Though John can’t see it, he can feel Sherlock’s smirk...a light bulb goes on over John’s head and he knows exactly what Sherlock is trying to do and when he’ll send the signal.

John steadies himself and waits.

“So where is he? I know you didn’t come here alone, did you send them on their merry way? Or are they hiding? Waiting to ambush us?” Sophia smiles, too sweetly and begins scanning the forest around her.

A flare of anxiety from Sherlock alarms John for a moment, although the detective gives nothing away on the outside; the very picture of calm and collected.

For a moment John thinks that maybe Sophia sees him, but she quickly moves her gaze away from his position and looks at Sherlock again.

“You’ll think I’m lying either way, what point is there in answering? Besides, no matter where he is, you will never get what you want.” Sherlock is somehow managing to maintain a cool, unaffected facade, which obviously has Sophia grinding her teeth in irritation.

John however, whether through simply knowing Sherlock or the bond, can feel (more strongly than yesterday he now notices) the increase of Sherlock’s heart beat and the underlying fear that Sherlock may be wrong.

Wrong about what? It almost sounds like...are they talking about _him?_ That can’t be right... _focus Watson, focus._

Sophia smiles evilly, although unlike Moriarty, there is soul in her face. It’s broken, cracked, so far gone from human that she isn’t herself anymore. Moriarty...with him John couldn’t see even a single speck of anything other than snarky confidence and insanity, nothing to indicate if there was ever anything else. With this woman...he can tell she was once, but something broke her.

“Do not underestimate me Sherlock Holmes. Have you not realized, after everything that has happened, underestimation of your adversaries has brought you more grief than any other weakness?” She leans in close. “I don’t care what you think of me, I really don’t, about anything, the only thing I even remotely cared about is gone and it is _your_ fault. I know about you, you’re a cruel man, unable to express your love though I know you feel it. I can tell, and I will take delicious relish in taking that one thread of humanity away from you.” Sophia sneers.

Sherlock’s hands tighten behind his back and his wings flare out in response.

“I know my weaknesses and what they have cost me.” Sherlock pauses and John feels a flare of anxiety through their bond. “You however, are of a different level of cruel than I, yes you lost someone crucial to you, but you used your grief to find, manipulate and take advantage of the weakness of your adversary in the most complicated and maniacal way. It was both methodical and cowardly.” Sherlock utters. Sophia is heaving now. “You say you don’t care about anything? If that were true, you would’ve either killed yourself or at least come to me directly instead of going through bodies and some grand scheme to get back at me. You don’t want to die, and...Ah, yes.” A note of cheeky confidence enters Sherlock’s tone, and quickly gets filtered away, replaced with a spitting tone that is chilling, as he continues to speak. “You’re doing this, because in your own twisted way, a part of you believes seeking vengeance will somehow erase your grief. Make it ache less, make it...better, make you _want_ to live. You couldn’t just come up and kill me no, that would be too easy, hollow. You have to draw this out, see me suffer, make me suffer, because your broken mind is telling you the more I suffer, the better you’ll feel...well, you know what...” Sherlock leans in as close as he can. “It won’t work, I have yet to lose what you have, but I know that the kind of grief you feel will never go away no matter what you do or don’t do.” Sherlock finishes, leaning away.

Sophia is glaring murderously now, her hand shaking.

“What do you expect me to do? Concede? You’re the mad one if you think that’s how this is going to end!” Sophia spits.

“Oh of course not, you’re too far gone for that.” Sherlock waves a casual hand, and then replaces it in the cup of his other hand behind his back. Sophia almost looks confused, as though she wasn’t expecting that answer. Sherlock begins a pattern of tapping on his hand, too purposeful to be coincidence…John's gaze zeros in on the movement and he realizes that it is Morse code.... ‘soon’, ‘fire’. John nods, though he knows no one can see, and checking to make sure no one is looking his way, he signals to Greg. _Soon._

John gathers a rotting chunk of wood in one hand. “You know what will be a deciding factor here in your inevitable failure?” Sherlock posits.

Sophia snorts.

“Oh, what’s that?” She once again surveys the area around her, lingering to a point in the distance behind Sherlock.

John frowns...she looks like she’s expecting something, them or something/someone else?

“I put my trust in the right people.” Sherlock shrugs and turns to focus his vitriol on the man behind her, before Sherlock starts speaking again he chances a quick glance to the young man and John feels a twinge of urgency coming from him. “ _Not_ barely adequate minions who blindly follow the orders of a deranged woman because they are so desperate for that structure and control they lost, that they are eager and willing to give up their self-respect for-”

It all happens quickly.

The man behind Sophia bulges with fury in response to Sherlock’s words, and not even Sophia’s cry of _‘_ _Stop!_ _’_ can prevent him from dropping the young man and rushing forward.

At that precise moment, Sherlock sticks up his thumb behind his back and John knows it is time. As the man reaches Sherlock and the two begin to show their expertly trained hand to hand fighting skills, Sherlock kicks Sophia in the stomach and she drops the sniper rifle.

John and Greg simultaneously leap out from cover and John sets the wood in his hand ablaze. He winces at the heat, but before he can severely burn himself he throws it at the man grappling with Sherlock, it hits him square in the jaw and the man cries out in pain, Sherlock takes advantage of his momentary daze and jumps him. They fall to the ground. At the same time Greg runs around the edge of the clearing, gun drawn, towards the young man now trying to awkwardly crawl away.

John runs towards the two men tussling violently on the ground. He keeps an eye on Sophia though and just as he’s about to reach Sherlock, he notices she is reaching for the rifle, he fires off a shot that clips her hand and she groans in pain, blood pouring from her hand. She looks up at him and is immediately drawn to his wings. A look of fury mixed with delight flashes across her face.

She is clearly about to run in his direction when Greg moves up behind her and bashes her in the head with the butt of his gun; knocking her out cold.

Greg goes for the young man, and John heads for Sherlock.

The man now has Sherlock on his back, hands around that long white column of his throat, Sherlock is trying to get his legs around the man, but he is too large and too strong. His hands are covered in shallow, bloody cuts, mostly caused by the scrambling of Sherlock’s hands. Even that isn’t enough to stop him.

Fear pounds loudly in John’s ears. “Sherlock!” John cries out loudly.

The sound momentarily distracts the man long enough for Sherlock to twist the hands around his neck, though not enough to throw the determined man off.

John shoots the man in his right shoulder, and from this angle if the bullet goes through it won’t hit Sherlock.

He cries out in pain and falls off Sherlock. The detective quickly scrambles out of the way, just as John automatically flies the short distance and lands with a hard thud on top of the wounded man, filled with anger and fear at seeing Sherlock so close to death.

John is about to bring the butt of his gun down to knock this man out too, Greg is currently trying to undo the leather straps around the young man’s feet, and Sherlock is giving John a brief once over to check that he is alright before rushing to help Greg.

The sound of a loud gunshot causes everyone to stop moving and look in the direction of the sound.

Another man, identical to the one beneath John (must be his brother) has entered the clearing. However, unlike his brother he seems much more collected and he is expertly holding a gun trained in John’s direction.

Sherlock has turned ghostly pale, looking between the new man and John. Greg is frozen in his crouch beside the trembling young man.

“Get. Off. Him.” A growly voice commands John. “And drop the gun.”

John slowly lowers his gun onto the ground and moves away from the man he had previously been straddling. He stays on his knees and keeps his hands up in the air.

 _Fuck._ Now what? At this range, John isn’t sure he’d be able to roll away without for sure getting hit, especially by a man who seems to know what he’s doing. And there is no way he’d be able to reach the rifle without being noticed. _Shit._

The man keeps his gun on John and looks at Sherlock and Greg.

“You two, step away from the boy. No arguments or I shoot him.” The man moves to stand directly beside his groaning, bleeding brother. His gun now nearly at point blank range with John’s head.

Neither Greg nor Sherlock hesitate. They raise their hands and move away to John’s right. The young man looks even more terrified, ready to try and bolt now that his feet are free. John prays that he doesn’t, because there is something in the eyes of the man standing in front of him that says he wouldn’t hesitate to kill.

“Now, here’s what’s going to happen. You-” The man points to Sherlock and Greg. The latter flicking concerned eyes towards John, and Sherlock glaring murderously at the man pointing a gun at John’s head, wings flared out in a threatening posture. “- start walking back the way you came and don’t stop. You-” The man looks down at John. “- You shot my brother, I know the lady here wants you, wants you bad-” John frowns with confusion at the words... _she wants him? Why?_ John feels like the answer is right in front of his face but he can’t see it. “- and she would likely do to me like she’ll do to that twerp over there if I were to kill you.” He gestures towards the shaking, bound young man. “However, I see no reason why I can’t have a little...fun, for a while before she wakes up.” The man leans down and rubs the barrel of his gun across John’s cheekbone, while his other hand forms a fist.

If it were any other situation, John might laugh at the cheesiness of that line, but as it is he is forcing himself to stay calm and give no indication of fear. To be honest, while he does believe the man means him harm, his main fear is for the two men behind him. There is a barely controlled rage flowing from Sherlock, fear zinging alongside it with the underlying hum of Sherlock thinking at lightning speed.

_I_ _’_ _m alright. Please Sherlock, just leave. I will find a way out of this. Just get out of here._

He has at least a good chunk of time before Sophia wakes up, and the man’s brother is seriously wounded, John is positive he can find an opportunity that will allow him to escape and hopefully bring the terrified young man with him.

_I will not leave you._

Sherlock sounds angry at John, angry for even suggesting he go anywhere. Somehow John feels he shouldn’t be surprised at the sheer vehemence with which Sherlock thinks those words.

_Sherlock, don_ _’_ _t be stupid_ _–_

_You_ _’_ _re the one being stupid John, stop being so foolishly self-sacrificing. I refuse to leave you here, I can_ _’_ _t, I won_ _’_ _t do it._

There is that fear again in those words, loud and powerful. 

John’s heart thumps painfully in his chest.

“I have a proposition.” Sherlock’s voice booms with confidence from John’s right.

“Shut up and start walking poof!” The man hollers angrily at Sherlock.

Sherlock sighs deeply, probably rolling his eyes at the man.

“Juvenile attempts at insult aside, you seem to be a relatively intelligent man. You must notice that your brother is bleeding out and will possibly die without medical attention.” Sherlock recites, deceptively calm.

That causes the man to pause and briefly glance down at his brother, who looks on the edge of passing out.

His gun is still unwavering from John though.

“Your point?” The man narrows his eyes at Sherlock.

“John there is a doctor, drop the gun and he’ll look after your brother.”

Instead of protesting assisting the man who tried to kill Sherlock, John remains silent when he figures out Sherlock is trying to open up an opportunity for John to incapacitate the man.

“He is about to pass out from blood loss, the bullet went through so all he needs is constant, tight pressure around the wound until you can get him somewhere with antibiotics and stitch him up, if you know how to do that.” John adds.

He can see the man is beginning to waver, his desire for his brother to be treated overtaking his anger at John and control of the situation.

“I could just threaten to kill you now if you don’t treat him.” His grip on the gun tightens.

“You could.” Sherlock quips. “But you don’t have a miniature medical kit on your person, I do, and since the police will be here shortly, this has to be done quickly, judging by the patterns of dirt on your legs, I gather your vehicle is a fair distance from here and you wouldn’t be able to get any potential help for your brother in time.”

The man curses at the mention of the police, turning angrier. However, a final groan before his brother passes out shocks him out of it. When he sees his brother unmoving he quickly drops the gun and falls to his brother’s side.

He may have dropped the gun, but it is still close to his hand and within his line of sight, he could easily reach out and grab it if he so desired. John feels a sense of overwhelming relief come from Sherlock when the gun falls; though he is still rightly on edge.

“Treat him.” The man insists, focus now entirely on his brother.

Sherlock calmly walks forward and hands John a small kit. Their fingers meet for a fleeting second and their eyes lock, worry, fear and many other emotions flowing through that connection before Sherlock drops his fingers and motions for Greg to continue helping the young man while the uninjured brother is distracted.

Sherlock remains standing by John’s side.

The man is wary as he watches John work. John tears off the front unconscious man’s shirt and works it quickly into strips. He balls up the rest into two sections, he hands one to the brother kneeling beside him.

“Hold this and tightly press it to the wound.” John recites, his doctor self emerging. “Now.”John enunciates when the other man doesn’t move fast enough.

It doesn’t take long before John has the meager first aid kit possessions laid out and ready, a needle and thread, rubbing alcohol and antibiotic ointment. He motions for the kneeling man to lift the shirt ball and John begins thoroughly cleaning out the gaping wound, on both sides. He places the antibiotic ointment on the wound, and when he does the back, the other brother replaces the shirt ball on the front portion of his brothers wound, and John places the other piece underneath and lets the unconscious mans weight hold it down. John often had to do a lot of impromptu medical procedures during the army, so this situation is not unfamiliar to him.

A couple minutes later, John has stitched the exit wound and is just finishing up the front, Sherlock watching him, and Greg still undoing the multiple bonds holding the young man, when Sophia begins to stir.

The gun the man had dropped is very close to her hand, careful not to give herself away, Sophia slowly inches her fingers towards it; still a bit groggy from the hit.

Again, it all happens very quickly. Sophia recovers surprisingly quickly and Sherlock doesn’t notice until it is too late.

“John!” Sherlock screams as Sophie points the gun at John; whether her intent is to kill or seriously injure is unclear.

Everything might as well be moving in slow motion.

John turns and sees Sophia, moving into a standing position, pulling the trigger, he falls backwards in order to avoid the gun shot right when she fires and Sherlock leaps towards John.

At the same time Greg notices with horror that the sound of the gun coming from a conscious Sophia has scared the young man into bolting to his feet and running before Greg could stop him.

Sophia notices and raises her gun.

Greg is about to jump towards Sophia when the man who had been sitting vigil by his brother leaps forward and tackles him to the ground.

John looks at Sophia, her gun hand taking aim...no one will be able to stop her in time John realizes with dawning horror.

_Don_ _’_ _t._

Sherlock holds tightly to John, the two of them collapsed on the ground.

John can’t listen to Sherlock right now. He has to elbow the detective in his side to get him to release his grip.

Sherlock grunts in pain, John pushes himself up from the ground and rushes at Sophia.

A gunshot goes off.

The young man collapses.

John cries out and feels shock mingled with white hot pain radiate from a point on his leg, he peripherally notices Sherlock’s face go stony with fear. He scrambles quickly to get up and over to John.

In the distance, the silence is permeated by the bleating sounds of sirens; audible though they’re a ten minute walk away.

The police are here.

Sophia rushes away from John, grabs the sniper rifle and runs in another direction. The man, who had been tackling Lestrade, panics and scrambles away from the DI, he then picks up his brother in a fireman’s carry and follows her.

No one stops them.

“John! John! _John!_ ” Sherlock is chanting the doctor’s name over and over, fear thick in his voice. John has turned onto his back and is gripping his bloody thigh when Sherlock collapses onto his knees beside him. John looks up at those stormy eyes filling with tears, that curly hair bouncing in the wind...John has never seen anything so beautiful. “Tell me you’re alright, please, please, you have to be alright, you have to be!” Sherlock pleads loudly, hands moving frantically over John’s body, eyes darting to see where he was shot.

The pain is bad, but not nearly as bad as his shoulder wound. John can feel the bullet only grazed him. Still bloody hurts though and he does feel a bit woozy. _Too late, you were too late...she shot that poor young man anyway. Fuck._

Right now, John is more distracted by the fear radiating off of Sherlock; the panic tightening the lines of his face, his large silvery wings curl protectively over John’s body.

John knows the wound is superficial, unfortunately he thinks he also managed to hit his head on a rock when he fell after being shot, might have a mild concussion. Nothing too serious, he needs to reassure Sherlock. The poor man hasn’t let up his worried muttering.

“John! For god’s sake talk to me! I swear if you die on me...you stupid, _stupid_ man.” Sherlock’s voice breaks on those last words and his trembling hands settle on either side of John’s face.

John blinks groggily. Inwardly he thinks that Sherlock must seriously be clouded with worry about John if he hasn’t even noticed that his wound isn’t all that bad.

John is distracted by the feeling of warm palms on his face, frantically stroking, that unique face is very close to his own, shock fills him as he realizes Sherlock is _holding_ him. Not just by his face, but his wings have now completely encased Johns body.

John can’t even begin to comprehend the waves of emotion rolling off of Sherlock right now.

In the back of his mind, John notes Sherlock is one of those people who looks beautiful when they cry.

“Hey, hey, I’m alright. Really, the wound is...superficial.” John groans out.

Sherlock frowns, his hands stop moving though they don’t move away.

Their eyes lock in a different way than ever before.

 _I_ _’_ _m alright._ John reiterates softly in his head.

This seems to shock Sherlock out of his trance, John notes with some regret that Sherlock’s wings move away so Sherlock can examine Johns wound.

It is indeed a graze, bloody, deep but already clotting, it will only need a few stitches.

Sherlock sighs in relief so profound John’s stomach swoops when Sherlock’s fear of John dying or being seriously injured vanishes.

“Yes, yes you are quite right. Superficial. Of course. Nothing to worry about, very good.” Sherlock closes his eyes, breathing heavily, trying to regain control.

John is pressing down with his hand, keeping pressure on the wound. John watches with surprise when he notices Sherlock reach out and place his hand over Johns, adding his own pressure to the wound.

Sherlock still has his eyes closed.

“Hey.” John rasps out, wanting to do something about the childlike, tired expression of his – Sherlock’s, right now.

_I_ _’_ _ve never seen him look so...affected before._

Sherlock’s eyes flash open and he looks at John.

“Are you alright? Is there something you need?” Without moving his hand Sherlock anxiously stretches so he is hovering over John’s face, looking for a sign of another injury.

John finds himself chuckling. Sherlock gives him a look of disapproval. “John, I hardly think this situation humorous.”

“Sherlock, relax, I’m fine. Are you ok?” John asks sincerely.

Sherlock looks relieved at John’s answer, although he doesn’t respond to the question.

“You are an idiot John Watson.” Sherlock sounds angry at John again.

John finds himself smiling. _Why am I smiling?_

John just feels so...complete, and happy. He feels it in his wings, so it can’t be the concussion he might not even have. This feeling actually reminds him of the moment when Sherlock and John sealed their bond.

Sherlock is watching John’s face curiously, his brow creased adorably.

“Says the man who goes out yelling for serial killers in the woods. The Sherlock Holmes mating call.” John smirks.

Sherlock looks at John like he’s gone mad, but he is also fighting a smile.

“I suppose you’re a bad influence on me John.” Sherlock teases.

John guffaws.

“I’m the bad influence? Please, before I met you I would never have thought chasing criminals through alleyways with a civilian would be a bloody brilliant idea.”

There is a joy around the two men now, despite the circumstances, John isn’t sure what is causing it, but it’s there and he revels in the feeling; loose and free.

Sherlock hums and gives a slight nod.

John sighs and watches the man, for the moment daring to look his fill in a way he has never let himself do with Sherlock watching.

He doesn’t know what is showing on his face, but whatever it is, it causes Sherlock to look almost confused...before his eyes widen in disbelief.

“...John?” Sherlock whispers, his voice vulnerable and uncertain, shifting a bit uncomfortably though not moving away.

Maybe it’s terrible of him to say, but he loves it when Sherlock looks like that, vulnerable and childlike. There is innocence about him; it is at moments like these where Sherlock’s heart truly shines. John wants to capture this moment away to look back on whenever he feels the urge to punch the git or gets annoyed with him, or doubts Sherlock’s sincerity.

John doesn’t respond. Instead he feels a cautious frown of his own crease his brow as he makes the conscious decision to give into an urge he’s had for a while.

Before he can doubt the action, John reaches up with the hand not holding his leg and lightly strokes Sherlock’s cheekbone.

Sherlock’s lips part in a surprised gasp.

A different kind of fear echoes in Sherlock.

“I...I _can_ _’_ _t.._ _.this.._ ” Sherlock’s voice is small. He closes his eyes tightly, and hangs his head.

John frowns further, and seeing as how Sherlock has yet to throw him off, John takes advantage of the moment and cups Sherlock’s entire cheek.

Sherlock makes a sound that could almost be considered a whimper.

“What is it?” John asks with surprising softness, leaving his hand on Sherlock’s flushed skin.

John’s heart is pounding, and he realizes Sherlocks is to.

_Is this even happening? Oh god..._

“I...I don’t, I don’t...” Sherlock makes a grunt of frustration. “This is intolerable.” Sherlock mutters.

“It often is.” John notes, not even sure what he means by that.

Sherlock tilts his head in confusion.

“What John?” Sherlock asks.

John hesitates, unsure how to answer.

“Feeling like... _this_.” John lets his hand fall and motions between the two of them, even though he isn’t positive about what exactly is going on in this moment.

 _I can_ _’_ _t believe I just said that, now, of all times. Bloody hell what are you doing John? Sherlock might not even be feeling what you_ _’_ _re feeling_. John is just starting to feel some anxiety leech into their warm bubble when Sherlock responds.

“I...I never thought...” Sherlock tries to speak again, still as uncertain as before. John feels a rush of fondness, as the normally so eloquent man struggles for words. “I don’t...I don’t know how to, if I can, I’m...I’m...”

John doesn’t need to hear Sherlock say it, it is obvious in his entire demeanour. He’s afraid, and doesn’t know how to admit it.

John wants to ask why he’s afraid, but right now that would be more for his own curiosity than any benefit to Sherlock. Besides, John can feel why he’s afraid, and that revelation causes another feeling of intense relief filled with wonderment so large John can’t even describe it.

Sherlock does feel _something_ for him, something that goes deeper and beyond friendship. Whether anything becomes of it is another story entirely.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay.” John utters, reaching up again to silence Sherlock by lightly touching a fingertip to his lips.

“Is it?” Sherlock asks, almost demure and clearly disbelieving.

For the first time, John notices Greg standing not far from them out of the corner of his eye clearly not looking in their direction, trying to give them a private moment.

John focuses his attention back on Sherlock. John rests his hand on Sherlock’s neck.

“Yeah, it is.”

 

Shortly before the police arrive John falls asleep, overcome and exhausted. Sherlock lets him for the moment, mainly because John didn’t show signs of having a concussion, and Sherlock finds it difficult to think when John is staring at him.

It is as Sherlock gently moves his bloody hand away from John’s leg that Sherlock notices Johns hand has fallen off to the side, exposing the bare...unblemished skin beneath.

No bullet wound.

Only pure, _healed_ creamy skin.

It has been known that some deep soul mates can heal the wounds of their counterpart. How they do it is simple and often done as an instinct more than conscious action.

Feelings of love, protection and devotion overwhelm the bond to the exclusion of all else, opening the gateway for the ability to heal.

Only deep soul mates with the most profound connection can do this.

 

Sherlock has transferred John’s head to rest on his knees, Greg notices. Behind him he can hear the beginnings of officers arriving at the scene; Greg knows he should turn around and explain what happened since he doubts Sherlock will be moving to do that any time soon.

Greg is so bloody relieved John is ok. Sherlock...Greg doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the way Sherlock reacted to John being shot.

If he didn’t know how Sherlock feels about the doctor before, he certainly would now.

Honestly, Greg has never seen two people more suited for each other.

So he is only mildly surprised when he notices that John’s wound is gone when Sherlock lifts his hand away.

Greg turns around, leaving Sherlock and John alone to have their moment.

The chaos will arrive again soon enough.

 


	16. Cards on the table, we're both showing hearts

Chapter 15

 

John dreams again. This time, it isn’t of the cottage, but the cold stark reality of a hospital room.

_John is standing in the corner of a room, it is quiet except for the slow beeping of a heart monitor._

_The woman lying on the bed is frail, asleep, her pallor so grey it only accentuates the aged quality of her skin. Golden wings fall over the edge of the bed, John notices that veins of grey and black are leeching through the shining gold of the feathers._

_This woman is dying._

_John has seen this woman before. She is the one from the cottage, with the little boy and the other man._

_The door to the hospital room opens and two men enter. One is clearly the other man from before, John notices the same dying veins invading his wings as well._

_The other...the other is no longer a little boy, but a man, a teenager. He wears a long dark grey coat; his curls cover his head in an untidy mop and his blue grey eyes are unblinking and focused on the dying woman._

_Nothing can hide the looks of twin devastation on the men_ _’_ _s faces._

_The older man takes a seat in the chair beside the woman in the bed, reaching out to let his hand rest on hers. The young man doesn_ _’_ _t go any closer than the foot of the bed, he is rigid and still, though there are silent tears running down his perfectly sculpted face._

_“_ _The doctor said we should say goodbye._ _”_ _The older man recites flatly, gaze unmoving from the sleeping woman._

_“_ _Why?_ _”_ _The young man responds in a surprisingly deep voice._

_The other man looks at him._

_“_ _You know why Billy._ _”_ _He says softly._

_The young man, Billy, squeezes his eyes shut, grimacing and turning away from the bed._

_“_ _I tried...I tried to find a way to save her, I couldn_ _’_ _t, I_ _’_ _m useless, worthless-_ _”_ _The young man chants, broken and angry._

_“_ _No!_ _”_ _The other man interrupts, as loud as he dare. The young man stops talking._ _“_ _Come here boo, please._ _”_ _The older man_ _’_ _s voice breaks at the last word, he reaches out a hand to the young man standing a few feet away._

_The young man_ _’_ _s eyes carefully avoid the woman on the bed as he makes his way over with stilted steps. As soon as he is close enough, the older man grabs Billy_ _’_ _s hand in his._

_“_ _You listen to me William; there is nothing, nothing more we could_ _’_ _ve done. We, everyone, did everything they could. Don_ _’_ _t blame yourself, I beg you._ _”_ _The older man_ _’_ _s voice is insistent, his hand grips the woman_ _’_ _s tighter._

_Suddenly Billy_ _–_ _William_ _’_ _s face flashes with rage and he yanks his hand away, pacing angrily all over the room._

_“_ _Obviously not! If everyone supposedly did everything they could she-_ _”_ _The young man stops briefly to point a shaking finger at the woman in the bed. His tone is angry and scathing._ _“_ _-would not be there! She wouldn_ _’_ _t..._ _”_ _The young man cries out and begins to bang his head harshly against a wall._

_The older man leaps away from the bed to stop the younger man._

_“_ _Billy! Billy stop it, stop!_ _”_ _The older man grabs Billy into a hug from behind, pulling him away from the wall._

_Whatever composure the young man had is gone, his face has crumpled and tears are pouring in rivers down his face._

_He looks beautiful when he cries._

_“_ _Why? Why her, why why why..._ _”_ _The young man_ _’_ _s voice is clogged with tears._

_The older man is holding tightly onto William, John sees he is about to cry too._

_“_ _I don_ _’_ _t know. There is no answer to that question._ _”_ _The older man says with a voice hollow and broken._

_William clasps the older man_ _’_ _s hands around his middle tightly, head hanging in despair._

_“_ _M-Marcus? Billy?_ _”_ _A voice, hoarse and fading, calls out from the bed._

_The two men whip around to face her._

_“_ _Sweetie!_ _”_ _The older man_ _–_ _Marcus hurries over to the woman_ _’_ _s side, tears still running down his face as he grips her hand tightly._

_She waves her other hand around, eyes glassy and unseeing. She_ _’_ _s blind._

_Billy hasn_ _’_ _t moved._

_“_ _Billy, where are you?_ _”_ _The woman smiles as she searches for the younger man._

_He hesitates, though he does walk over and grab a hold of her frail looking hand; Billy looks terrified._

_“_ _I_ _’_ _m here grandmother._ _”_ _William says quietly, trying to sound stronger than he_ _’_ _s obviously feeling._

_The woman_ _’_ _s smile lights up her entire face, even on the verge of death._

_“_ _I_ _’_ _m glad Billy, I_ _’_ _m glad you_ _’_ _re here. Mmm, my boys._ _”_ _Her foggy eyes turn to the ceiling and she desperately tries to move her fingers to hold the hands of her boys back, but she is too weak._ _“_ _Where is my, my son?_ _”_

_“_ _He_ _’_ _s on his way. I love you, I love you so much._ _”_ _The older man, Marcus, leans over and presses a light kiss to the corner of the woman_ _’_ _s mouth._

_“_ _I know. I love you too._ _”_ _The woman answers, her glassy eyes fall closed._

_Her wings, and Marcus_ _’_ _s, begin to curl inward and their colours transform into a dark and ashen grey._

_It is nearly time. The edges of the dream begin to turn dark and hazy._

_“_ _Grandmother?_ _”_ _Billy utters, sounding panicky. He falls to his knees beside the bed and holds his grandmothers hand in a death grip._

_“_ _Mmm, I_ _’_ _m alright Billy, I_ _’_ _m alright...you_ _’_ _re my little genius, my beautiful grandson, you always will be._ _”_ _The woman_ _’_ _s voice is growing fainter._

_Billy pushes himself up and off the floor and sits himself on the bed, he leans over and rests his hands on the sides of his grandmothers face._

_The older man watches this interaction with growing sorrow._

_“_ _You can_ _’_ _t leave, you can_ _’_ _t! I...I don_ _’_ _t have anyone, please._ _”_ _His voice breaks._

_The woman smiles sadly and shakes her head._

_“_ _You know that isn_ _’_ _t true. You must promise me something, alright?_ _”_ _The woman_ _’_ _s voice suddenly turns louder, a last burst of determination surging through her._

_Billy bites his lips and nods, stroking the sides of her face._

_“_ _Love yourself, love what you do and hold onto the people you love and who love you for as long as you can. Do these things, and you_ _’_ _ll be ok._ _”_ _Though she can_ _’_ _t see him, the woman turns her face in Billy_ _’_ _s direction._ _“_ _Maybe even raise your own bees, I know you_ _’_ _ve always been fascinated by them._ _”_ _She adds with a little grin._

_He shakes his head in protest, resting his forehead against hers._

_“_ _I won_ _’_ _t, I won_ _’_ _t be ok._ _”_ _Billy sobs and his head falls from hers and lands on her chest. He begins sobbing in earnest._

_“_ _Yes you will. I love you William Sherlock Scott Holmes._ _”_

_Those words echo as her last. Her heart beat turning weaker and then stopping altogether._

_The loud, single beep indicating flat line is like a twisting knife to the two men currently grieving by this woman_ _’_ _s bedside._

_Her wings turn to greying ash and vanish, as do the older man_ _’_ _s; the connection with his deep soul mate is gone, he will never be able to perform any magic ever again._

_Billy continues to sob._

_Marcus, crying as well, reaches out and rests his free hand on top of William_ _’_ _s head._

_“_ _Billy..._ _”_

_The young man suddenly tenses. His sobbing ceases and his expression turns hard. He pushes himself away from the bed, heart jumping in his throat._

_“_ _Don_ _’_ _t. Call. Me. That._ _”_ _The young man spits angrily._

_Without another glance to his grandmother or Marcus, William strides out of the room._

_The edges of the dream disintegrate into ash, fading, fading..._

 

John’s eyes flash open.

_Sherlock...that was...Sherlock....how? It was so real..._

With the dream still lingering in his mind with a sort of surreal shock ( _what kind of dream was that? Was it even a dream? It must_ _’_ _ve been, but then why..._ ), John shifts within the warm comfort on his bed... _wait._

Memories from when he last remembers being awake bombard him and suddenly John feels dizzy.

The forest...the bunker...Sophia...John being shot...Sherlock... _Sherlock._

John gasps with the sharpest clarity as he remembers the memory of Sherlock crouched over him, looking more terrified than John had ever seen him and the moment they shared.

John remembers it all, the feeling of Sherlock’s hands on his face (much like they were on that woman’s in dream, John’s mind supplies), desperately trying to fight tears John could see welling in his eyes, his warm hand covering his own, pressing down on the wound...and then, John touching Sherlock’s face, and Sherlock letting him, the emotions John could feel pouring through Sherlock...an echo of the sealing of their bond.

With a start John remembers how he bared himself to Sherlock, not in so many words exactly, but in his expressions, his actions, he remembers the look on Sherlock’s face as the genius read every emotion John couldn’t help but feel in that moment... John feels anxiety at what might happen now, his heart rate increases, the feeling of being shot a bare echo in comparison, but then Sherlock’s own response to John filters through it and John thinks...he bared himself too didn’t he? John never thought he’d see sentiment despising Sherlock Holmes express the feeling John is positive he saw and felt...what does he do now? Talk to him? Let Sherlock come to him? Will he? The idea of having an emotional heart to heart with Sherlock Holmes of all people is strange, not just because of him, but John too has never been good at talking about this kind of thing. The possibility that Sherlock _might_ feel for him the way John feels for Sherlock is no longer wholly impossible, will anything come of it though? John doesn’t know.

There is doubt in John too, the entire incident was adrenaline fueled and emotionally high, how will things be and feel in the light of day? Will Sherlock simply write off John’s observations as idiotic due to blood loss?

And there is the matter of the case as well. John doesn’t know what happened to the young man, and the whole confrontation between Sherlock and Sophia is another can of worms all together.

How did they get back to the cottage? What happened after John...passed out?

John has so many questions, too many for having just woken up, which to ask first? Maybe a cup of tea will hold the answers, or even coffee.

All John knows for sure is that he wants answers; he just doesn’t know which ones he wants first.

John pushes himself into a sitting position and notices its dark outside, the light of his clock flashes seven pm. _Wow, I_ _’_ _ve been asleep for a long time._

John yawns, rests his elbows on his knees and rubs the heels of his hands against his eyes. He stretches and flexes his wings.

It is then John notices that he is wearing nothing but his underwear.

Ok, so someone undressed him and tucked him into bed...John has absolutely no memory of that.

The sound of his door knob turning causes John to frown and look in the direction of his bedroom door. It is gently pushed open to reveal a frazzled looking Sherlock, wearing a deep cinnamon coloured dressing gown (it seems that Sherlock got his love of those from Marcus) tied tightly around his body with a grey t-shirt underneath; the short length of the dressing gown exposing the milky white tone of his legs, clearly holding onto whatever current aversion he has to wearing pyjama trousers.

He’s holding a cup of steaming tea in his free hand.

John blinks as an uncontrollable surge of emotion flows through him at the sight of the man he’d just been thinking about (dreaming about?), the man he...the man he _loves._

Sherlock has yet to look in John’s direction; his expression is one of deep thought, worry tainting the gorgeous blue of his eyes. John doesn’t say anything as Sherlock turns to close the door.

When Sherlock finally looks in John’s direction, Sherlock seems surprised to find John awake; his hand clenches the mug tightly.

He freezes. So does John.

The silence and tension is awkward to say the least. Sherlock looks away from John, his face barely masking the uncertainty hiding behind his eyes.

“I brought you tea. Lestrade made it but I...carried it up here.” Sherlock suddenly says, a bit brusque, and holds out the mug to John as Sherlock finally meets John’s gaze with a guarded look in his eyes.

John smiles in a way he hopes is reassuring.

“Ta Sherlock.” John nods, gently taking the tea from Sherlock’s hand.

Their fingers brush and both men feel a tremble.

Sherlock is still standing there when John takes a sip. It’s perfect and John sighs in relief at taste of the hot, comforting liquid.

The silence is still awkward, but with the presence of tea John feels he is slowly gaining the strength to talk with Sherlock about...everything.

First things first, Sherlock needs to stop staring at him like he’s about to combust.

“Are you going to sit down or stand there for the rest of the evening?” John quips, trying to sound amused, sipping his tea while watching Sherlock.

Sherlock’s wings flutter and he shifts uncomfortably.

“Oh, right. Of course.” Sherlock mutters, he moves to sit at the end of John’s bed, his gaze anywhere but on John.

His posture is too rigid to be comfortable.

John frowns and puts his tea down on the bedside table.

“Sherlock, are you alright?” John asks quietly.

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak and then abruptly closes it. He surveys the room once before returning his eyes to the wall opposite him.

Definitely nervous.

“I’m perfectly fine John.”

John narrows his eyes in disbelief.

“Look at me.”

Sherlock tenses further. His movements are almost robotic as he turns to face John; the guarded look in his eyes is even more prevalent than before.

John doesn’t like it, _why is he so on edge?_

“Does that satisfy you?” Sherlock jibes.

John crosses his arms.

“No, you still haven’t told me what’s wrong.” John ignores the mocking sarcasm of Sherlock’s tone, recognizing it to be a defense mechanism.

“I told you I’m fine John.” Sherlock sighs, shifting a bit on the bed.

“And _I_ _’_ _m_ calling your bluff.” Johns leans back to rest against the headboard; the softness of his wings cushioning him against the hard wood.

Sherlock’s hand clenches. John waits. His patience is rewarded when the tenseness of Sherlock’s demeanour fades bit by bit, the action clearly takes effort on Sherlock’s part, revealing that uncertainty and caution from before.

There is still a somewhat guarded look in his eyes though, but John will take what he can get.

“Talk to me.” John leans forward, hands resting on the tops of his thighs.

Sherlock looks at John, his eyes are soft for only a moment before Sherlock scowls and gets up from the bed. His dressing gown and wings swirl out behind him as he walks towards the bedroom window (the effect somewhat dimmed due to the length of the dressing gown). Sherlock turns so John can only see the barest hint of his profile; he has one arm lying across his chest with the elbow of his other resting on it; a tight fist resting against the tips of his lips.

“The man Sophia shot, Bill Wiggins, he didn’t survive-” _Fuck._ “-I suppose one could call him the leader of my homeless network, he was an intelligent young man, his death is...regrettable.” Sherlock’s voice lowers for a moment. “I had hoped we would be able to save his life and stop that woman, it was foolish and naive of me. Mycroft was right, emotion blinded me and I nearly paid the price...again.” Sherlock’s wings sag dejectedly, his voice hard and angry. He flicks his eyes towards John before turning back towards the window. “You might believe it terrible of me to say, but the most tragic consequence of failing to save him, is not his death but what his death means.”

John’s brow furrows as he listens to Sherlock speak.

“What are you talking about?”

“Do you remember what Sophia said John?” Sherlock posits.

_How could I forget?_

“Every word.” John tends to remember the events surrounding getting shot with startlingly clarity. Frankly, John is surprised he didn’t have a nightmare or a flashback.

She certainly said a lot, John isn’t sure what Sherlock could be referring to.

Sherlock nods.

“You found the note she left me at the last crime scene.”

John pauses for a moment...certainly didn’t expect him to say that.

“Yes.” John shifts uncomfortably.

Sherlock hums. “I hazarded as much in the car.” Sherlock looks distracted for a moment. He shakes his head. “In the note Sophia repeated the letters YKMIWKY, I have always known what they meant, much like several if not all aspects of this case. You killed mine, I will kill yours.” Sherlock pauses. Johns brow rises _, you killed mine I will kill yours? What could_ _–_ “If you do remember, I’m sure you recall how she emphasised many times that I killed someone important to her, and that in revenge she would do the same to me, so I could suffer what she suffered.” Sherlock breathes in. “His name was Sebastian Moran, Moriarty’s second in command and the sniper assigned to kill you if I didn’t jump, he was also the most difficult to catch and I couldn’t get to him until later. I killed him, broke his neck.” Sherlock begins pacing the room, still keeping his gaze away from John. John watches him closely, heart pounding. “He had wings, and he wasn’t without talent, taking him down was difficult but I managed. Sophia is his daughter, Sophia Moran. She and her father shared the same connection we currently do, when he died she became...unstable. I wasn’t even aware of her existence until people I knew began to go missing, once she exposed herself, never physically, it wasn’t difficult to figure out what she was up to. Her father was one of the most talented snipers in the British military; he was dishonourably discharged many years ago and became a freelance assassin. His father was a world war two veteran and worked in the SOE, hence the bunker. I assume when Moran had Sophia he figured out a way to keep her existence hidden. I deduce when he teamed up with Moriarty, he offered to increase Sophia’s security in exchange for Moran’s services and loyalty.” Sherlock takes a deep breath, gathering his thoughts. “But I digress, the point is her entire motivation for everything, killing the people who were chiefly responsible for helping me locate Moran, and...everything else-” Sherlock flicks a glance at John. “-was to kill the one person who mattered most, to destroy me in the same way I destroyed her.” This time, Sherlock stops pacing and looks at John; sadness and anger (anger with himself) sharp in his features.

John lets everything sink in for a moment, processing the information... _wait, of course._ John had gotten inklings listening to Sophia and Sherlock talk, but hearing it confirmed... _god._

“Me, she wants to kill me.”

Sherlock gives a stiff nod.

“Her ultimate goal is to kill you in revenge for my part in the death of her father.” Sherlock starts pacing angrily again.

To be honest, John feels a bit overwhelmed. What is he supposed to say to what Sherlock just revealed? What can you say when you realize you’re the reason a woman decided to kill innocent people and plans to kill you to destroy the man you love? If what John remembers of what Sophia said is true, John doubts she would’ve gone for killing those three. When she realized Sherlock had a deep soul mate like she did...well.

_Bloody hell....Oh, wait a minute._

“We weren’t even bonded then, how could she have possibly known?” John asks, feeling a bit confused.

Sherlock frowns.

“She and her father bonded the way we did, after many years of knowing each other. Apparently, there are signs pre-bonding consistent with that type of connection. When she discovered it was me who killed her father, she must have done some research and came to the conclusion that you and I were latent deep soul mates. Sophia was desperate for some...satisfaction; she believed she had found her opportunity for it despite the rarity of deep soul mates that don’t connect immediately. Lucky for her, she was not wrong about us.”

“ _Lucky?_ ” John asks with disbelief.

Sherlock grunts.

“For _her._ ”

John sighs and leans forward, resting his hands on his face; covering his eyes.

“How did she find out you were the one who killed her father? Was she a part of Moriarty’s network?” John asks. He hears Sherlock stop pacing. A bit surprised, John lifts up his head and sees a deep fury has taken over Sherlock’s features.

“No, she was not.”

John frowns.

“Ok, so...how did she find out then?”

Sherlock goes to the window again, back facing John. Waves of anger are rolling off Sherlock now.

“I was betrayed.” Sherlock spits out.

John’s eyebrows hit his hairline in surprise.

“During your time away?”

“Towards the end, yes.” The words come out clipped.

 _Bloody hell_ , from what Sherlock, and Mycroft, have told him not many people were in on the plan...and one of them told this woman Sherlock killed her father? Setting this whole bloody mess in motion? Shit, John is going to _kill_ this person.

“Who was it?” John asks angrily.

Sherlock looks at John with a vaguely surprised expression. That fades as Sherlock takes in John’s question. A hard, cold look overtakes his features and Sherlock faces the window.

“It hardly matters now.” Sherlock mutters.

John growls in frustration.

“Sherlock-”

“No, John. Do not ask me again.”

John relents, though reluctantly. He’s about to ask Sherlock something else when a thought occurs to him.

“Hold on, you said towards the end?”

Sherlock is silent for a moment. “Yes.”

“So you weren’t entirely finished taking down Moriarty’s web when someone let slip you killed Moran?”

Sherlock’s words make something in John’s stomach churn unpleasantly, _what if..._

“No. The central points were all destroyed; there were only fragments, underlings left. I was determined to be rid of them all. I was forced to return early when...” Sherlock’s voice trails off.

“When she kidnapped those people and you realized she was after me?” John finishes for him. Sherlock nods, hands clenching tightly behind his back. John takes a deep, steadying breath. “So...does that mean when you’re done here, you’ll be....” John can’t even finish. Maybe it makes him pathetic, but his stomach is already in knots at the thought of Sherlock leaving again.

“No John. It will not be necessary for me to leave again.” Sherlock says and Johns exhales in relief.

There is silence for a few moments, both men in their own, deep thoughts. John reaches for his now cold tea, taps the side, and holds it gently as it warms. He takes a sip of the now hot liquid; thinking.

Sherlock is still staring out the window when John feels the urge to ask a question he’s honestly wanted to ask ever since Sherlock started talking.

“Why didn’t you tell me all of this from the beginning? I was the one apparently in danger, I deserved to know.” John slides out of bed and walks up to Sherlock, determined to get an answer.

Sherlock is still decidedly not facing John. His body is still tense and there is an undercurrent of frustration and vulnerability humming through their bond.

“I’d hoped I could deal with this without you ever needing to find out the details.” Sherlock quietly admits.

John groans. “Why? What would’ve been the point of that?” John repeats insistently.

Sherlock’s wings recoil slightly in a protective gesture around his body.

John takes a step closer.

“Sherlock...”

“I made a mistake. The same mistake, twice. I underestimated people and you got in harm’s way because of it, _twice_ , because of my folly. The mere idea that I was the one responsible for you being put in the position of being killed, _twice_ , it is deplorable. I couldn’t tell you. I couldn’t...I’m sorry.” Sherlock’s wings are trembling, and his voice echoes such self-loathing and misery John _has_ to do something.

He reaches forward and touches one of Sherlock’s wings. The first time he’s done so directly with his hand.

The effect is immediate. Sherlock stills and becomes calmer. Through the bond, John can feel a sense of pure happiness from Sherlock that he is trying to hide.

_Oh..._

John feels his body tremble as he has another revelation. He puts his mug of tea down on top of dresser, leaving his left hand on Sherlock’s wing.

“You didn’t tell me the full story surrounding your fall either.” John notes, heart pounding in his throat. Sherlock tenses, realizing that Mycroft must have told him, but then releases the feeling as John begins rubbing a joint in Sherlock’s wing, a different tremor altogether courses through Sherlock’s skin. “Why?” John doesn’t really expect an answer, his assumption is proved correct when Sherlock remains silent. “May I tell you my theory?” John teases.

John doesn’t see it, but Sherlock’s lips twist in a faint smile, though his entire body is thrumming with barely controlled anxiety.

“If you must.”

“Good.” John clears his throat, continuing to rub Sherlock’s wing joint. “My theory is, and feel free to stop me at any time if I begin to make a bloody arse of myself, that you didn’t tell me a big part of faking your death and then this whole thing with Sophia, is not because you were heartless or didn’t trust me like I thought just a couple days ago-” Sherlock shifts uncomfortably. “-in fact, quite the opposite. Your heart guided those actions, not your mind. No matter how you rationalize it, your heart ruled your head the first time because you couldn’t watch me –or Greg or Mrs Hudson –die, and you didn’t find a way to tell me because you wouldn’t chance even the smallest amount that someone in Moriarty’s network would find out. I’m still bloody pissed about what you put me through, but I understand why you did it and I meant it when I said I forgive you.”

John breathes deeply, his hand on Sherlock’s wing stops moving. “The second time, you couldn’t tell me because explaining everything in detail, Sophia’s motive, your unusual emotional state during this whole case etc, would’ve clued me into the fact that you were doing all you could to protect me. You didn’t tell me about your fall, or Sophia, because you knew...you knew that with all the details at my feet, with our bond, there is no way I would not be able to see.” John stops there, gulping nervously. _Just do it John, put the final nail in your coffin or open a door to who knows where._ Sherlock hasn’t interrupted him, that has to be a good sign right?

Sherlock has grown increasingly still and quiet throughout John’s words, a distinct feeling of being on edge thrums underneath his skin. He shifts uncomfortably when John stops speaking.

“No way you would not be able to see what?” Sherlock’s voice is barely audible.

_Here we go._

“There is no way I would not be able to see that you...you love me.”

There, the words are out, John Watson has taken the plunge... _god I hope I didn_ _’_ _t just make a huge mistake or...or misinterpreted or something_ , those are John’s fears and doubts speaking more than anything. Still, suspecting that Sherlock Holmes loves him goes against some long held assumptions John once had about the man, those assumptions are wavering though. Too much has happened, there is just too much evidence, especially within the last few days that unequivocally proves Sherlock Holmes has a heart deeper than many of the shallow people John has met in his life.

Anyone who thinks otherwise can go to hell.

Sherlock breathes in sharply.

“You...are not wrong.” Is what Sherlock finally says, quiet and slow. “But I can’t.” Sherlock finishes.

John’s hand falls and he steps away, suddenly feeling cold.

John vaguely remembers Sherlock uttering those exact words, in that exact desperate tone earlier today in the forest.

“Can’t what?” John tries to keep his tone as steady as possible.

“I can’t _lose_ you John. I _can_ _’_ _t_. I can’t! I _won_ _’_ _t_ do it! I _refuse to_.” Sherlock whirls around and yells in Johns face; his eyes wide and afraid, mouth and jaw tightened in anger.

John flounders a bit at Sherlock’s sudden outburst. He quickly recovers and tries to calm Sherlock down.

“Sherlock, you won’t-”

“Don’t say it, don’t you _dare_ say it.” Sherlock is edging closer into John’s personal space, so ferocious and angry he is walking John backwards. John barely notices when Sherlock suddenly has John backed up against a wall, it is also at that point John notices he is still in nothing but his pants and socks. “You can’t say it, don’t be an idiot and give me false platitudes, because I _will_ lose you. That is simply how it works. People lose things, material goods, _other people_ , whether through disconnection or death, it is all that ever happens. I nearly killed you twice; you may still die, if not now than in the future. Whether it’s by disease, or another gunshot, old age, you will die and I will lose you. I can’t see that happen, I can’t watch someone I...” Sherlock pauses, his eyes bulging and red, saliva drips down from the corner of his mouth from the ferocity with which he speaks, his wings are flared out dramatically and John is still backed against the wall with his heart beating painfully in his chest in response to the aching pain radiating off of Sherlock.

“Not again, I won’t do it. Whatever emotion I may feel, I can’t deal with it...it is a weakness, a disadvantage, you’re in my head and I _hate_ it, I hate that you’re there all the time, I hate that I have grown so sickeningly dependent on your companionship, a friendship of which I will never be worthy of. I hate that you make me lose control. If I give in to that weakness...losing you will be worse when it inevitably happens. I hate that you made all my work to keep myself distant and divorce myself from the trivialities of being human...I hate that you’ve made all that irrelevant. I...I hate your preposterous jumpers! This, _all_ this is your fault! I hate you, I hate you John Watson, I _hate_ you...” Sherlock’s voice trails off in a pained whisper; his face is directly in front of Johns, his breath hot and seething, angry tears forming in his eyes.

 _Oh Sherlock_...John bites his lip and fights the tears forming in his own eyes. _You wonderful man, what happened to you?_

John is gobsmacked at the long and emotional tirade Sherlock expressed. He doesn’t believe for one second that Sherlock truly hates _him_ (his own emotions, maybe); it is after all easier to say I hate you than I love you.

He has never seen Sherlock so...so helpless. It’s heartbreaking.

_What can I even say to all that?_

John reaches out a hand to do...something. Sherlock knocks it away and grabs John’s hands. John grunts in shock as Sherlock pins John’s wrists on either side of his head.

“Stop that.” Sherlock growls.

John doesn’t move.

“Stop what?” John breathes out.

“Stop looking like you...like you _care_ so much. It makes this...” Sherlock seethes.

John clenches his fists, eyes fiery with determination.

“But I do, I-”

“Don’t say it!” Sherlock snarls. “It doesn’t make _sense_. I am regarded as a cruel man; I couldn’t care less about sparing people’s _feelings_ , I have no respect for authority, I’m manipulative to the extreme, callous, sociopathic, I’m not even a woman...you _cannot_ love me.” Sherlock’s voice falls. “I left you grieving for _two years_ , whatever my reasons it makes more sense for you to _hate_ me for that. Not...not...” Sherlock insists, his emotions a storm John can barely see through.

John feels a single tear fall down his face. _Fuck._

“Damn it Sherlock! I don’t care whether it makes sense or not, I don’t even care that you’re a man, fuck that! What matters is that I could never hate you Sherlock, even when I was angry I never, not once _hated_ you. I love you-” Sherlock whimpers. “-I love you and I have for so long, nothing you can say or do will ever change that.” And it has taken John a lot of grief, literally, to realize that.

“No, it isn’t, can’t be possible...” Sherlock still has his long fingers wrapped around John’s wrists as he struggles to comprehend John’s words.

His eyes are darting all over Johns face, as though searching for a lie.

He won’t find one.

“Deduce all you want, everything I’ve said is true.” John says, utterly confident despite the swirling butterflies in his stomach.

Sherlock growls in frustration.

“You don’t understand John, because if you do...if you do love me then I won’t be able to...” Sherlock tries to explain, his eyes wide and face tense.

“You won’t be able to what Sherlock?” John breathes out. “Please explain it to me!”

“I won’t be able to _not_ love you back.” Sherlock confesses, eyes downcast, barely audible even this close.

John can’t help it, he smiles.

“So you do love me then?” His tone is light, and teasing, though he feels anything but.

Sherlock gives John a scolding look, though he doesn’t miss the twinkle of amusement in Sherlock’s eyes, there and then gone in a blink.

“Oh no, I definitely hate you.” His voice is still pained, though not as heavily as before.

John smirks in disbelief.

“Prove it. Walk away and don’t come back if you truly hate me.” John feels a spark of worry when he fears Sherlock might do just that. He is stubborn enough to.

Sherlock narrows his eyes; he then closes them and curses under his breath.

“I...I can’t do that.” Sherlock admits. John is careful not to move when he suddenly feels Sherlock’s forehead fall to his own. “You are a menace John Watson.”

John shrugs.

“Birds of a feather....”

Sherlock grimaces in a distaste.

“What a disgustingly overused metaphor.” Sherlock mumbles.

“I’ll concede to that.” John chuckles.

It is silent for only a moment, but that is long enough for the slight lighthearted nature to drift away and for the earlier distress and insecurity to rush back in.

Sherlock moves his head away from John and lets his hands fall, though he doesn’t move away from John completely. John panics that Sherlock might try to run after all, there is still something John needs to say.

“Sherlock, I need to say something and I want you to listen to me and please, _please_ try to really listen, ok?” John forces himself to lock unrelenting eyes on Sherlock, willing him to understand. Sherlock still has an air of discomfort and pain about him, but he nods his assent. “I have a lot of issues, trust being just one in a million, and there is no one I trust more than you. There is no one who annoys and frustrates me more than you; there is no one who fascinates me more than you, that matters to me more than you. At this point, too much has happened, we’ve gone through too much for me to not love you, and I don’t see that changing. I don’t know what’s going to happen; I don’t have any expectations about what will happen between us now, hopes...yeah." John pauses to take a breath. “Either way, the only thing I know for sure is that no matter what you decide, no matter what you do, no matter what you deny or admit to yourself, I just know, I know I’m in love with you...so much, you are so beautiful to me Sherlock. I wish...I wish you could see how phenomenal you really are.” John smiles. Sherlock’s mouth parts in surprise, his wings quiver and shake. “I don’t know all of what’s happened in your past, but I love you, every single part of you, whatever you feel about yourself, that is the truth.” John doesn’t think he’s ever said the word love so many times in his life, never thought he’d even say it like that let alone so many times, but he did and he means it.

He’s breathing heavily by this point and Sherlock...Sherlock is standing there in shock, hands shaking. He looks like he’s desperately trying to control himself from doing...something.

“I...John, I don’t deserve you.” Sherlock whispers brokenly.

John shakes his head and cups Sherlock’s face.

“I don’t know a lot, compared to you I know nothing, but I know that you _do_ deserve love and...if you’ll let me, if you want, I will spend the rest of my life proving that to you.” Ten minutes ago, John never thought he would say something like that; it might as well be a proposal. And yet, John finds he means it with all his heart.

Sherlock squeezes his eyes tightly shut; he closes them and walks away from John.

John stands still as he watches Sherlock begin to pace; muttering unintelligible words under his breath, his hands tightly gripping his hair.

John wants to go over there, wants to embrace Sherlock and promise him that everything will be alright. But something is stopping him, and it’s a promise he can’t make.

Sherlock suddenly stops, facing away from John.

“I don’t know what to do. Tell me what to do.” Sherlock says desperately.

John smiles sadly. “I can’t tell you what to do Sherlock.”

“Tell me what _not_ to do then.” Sherlock whirls to face John again, fire in his eyes as he looks up and down John’s body before focusing his eyes on John’s face.

John slowly shakes his head, knowing he’s flushing now.

“I can’t do that either.”

Sherlock growls.

“You are _immensely_ frustrating.” Sherlock tugs on his hair.

“I’m sorry.” He is, John knows hearing all this can’t be easy for Sherlock, realizing his own feelings must be even harder, and John can feel there is something else going on here, something happened, something huge that wounded Sherlock so deeply it still affects him to this day. John is sorry for all that.

Suddenly Sherlock’s whole manner changes, his hands fall and he slowly lifts his head to gaze at John with vibrant anger and disbelief.

“Sorry? _Sorry?_ Why are you apologizing? You have nothing to be sorry for, if anything I should be, I have done more-”

“No!” John strides forward and grasps Sherlock by the shoulders. “I am tired of playing the fucking blame game, let’s just accept we’re both sorry for a lot of things and leave it at that.”

Sherlock gives John a piercing look.

“You say that like its _easy_ , oh just leave it at that he says! It’s all ok now! Oh Sherlock I’ll love you always even though love is proven to be fluid and most certainly changes! I will love you no matter what even though you’re a sociopath, a _freak_ who-”

John grabs the sides of Sherlock’s face, pulls him down in one, quick movement and smashes their lips together.

Sherlock immediately stops speaking, which was partially John’s intention. Hearing Sherlock refer to himself as a sociopath and a freak it just...made John unbelievably angry, he had to do something. So John did the one thing he has restrained himself from doing, the one thing he denied and suppressed for so long.

He gave into the urge to kiss Sherlock Holmes.

At the moment he doesn’t know if he’s just made a big mistake because Sherlock isn’t moving, he’s completely frozen in shock. John finds he can’t move because the moment his lips touched Sherlock...there was silence, not just around them, but it was like everything became still, his emotions, his thoughts...everything. John has never experienced a kiss like that in his life.

John finally does pull away, the slight sweet smack of lips disconnecting echoes in the room. John notices Sherlock’s eyes are closed and John wants nothing more than to kiss him again, but he backs away.

Just as John lets his hands slide away Sherlock abruptly opens his eyes and holds John’s hands to his face, indicating they should stay there.

There is still fear in Sherlock’s eyes, a pain lingering not far away, but there is amazement there as well...that, is new.

John gulps.

“Sherlock-”

John is interrupted as Sherlock surges forward, grasps John’s waist with his hands and plants a kiss on his mouth. It is Sherlock that tilts his head, opening his mouth to go further, it is Sherlock that holds John tighter and backs them into a wall; holding John tight against his body.

John moans and grips Sherlock tighter; holding like a lifeline, lengthening what is admittedly the most passionate kiss John has ever experienced in his life.

Joy, joy, joy, _joy_...that is the emotion overwhelming John’s senses, all other thoughts and memories aren’t important right now. In this moment, he has Sherlock here, Sherlock _close_ , one hand on his face and the other tugging at his curly hair. Sherlock has his hands tightly squeezing John’s hips, pressing the entire length of his body against the shorter man. John’s wings are splayed to their full length against the wall and Sherlock’s are resting against them; perfectly lined up.

Suddenly Sherlock’s hands vanish and he pulls his lips away from John, he doesn’t really have time to question or feel disappointed when Sherlock’s hands reappear beneath his thighs and the taller man lifts John up against the wall so their heads are now level. John’s heart is sky rocketing in this new position, one he has been a part of though never on this end...John finds he doesn’t mind.

It is barely more than a second before Sherlock wraps John’s legs around his waist (once more John is awkwardly made aware he is nothing but his pants) and holds them there. John interlocks his ankles and the two men look at each other for a moment, breathing heavily, pupils blown, rimmed with colour, relief and love, before rejoining their lips deeply; wet, warm, rough and soft.

A thought suddenly interrupts this wonderful feeling and John stills. He can feel Sherlock frowning.

“What is it?” Sherlock asks, breathless, as he pulls his lips away.

John glances down at his leg...the leg he’s _sure_ got shot at today. There’s no wound, no pain, how...

“My leg.” John simply says, flicking his gaze in confusion to the startlingly wound free limb.

“I healed it.” Sherlock shrugs, as much as he can while holding John up. The man really is incredibly strong.

John’s eyes widen.

“You-”

“Yes, I healed it, not intentionally, it happened when I touched your leg while you were still conscious. I’m surprised it took you this long to notice. Regardless it appears we have discovered another soul ability of ours; if I can heal your wounds logic suggests you will be able to heal mine as well. Unless you have any immediate concerns, I think we should go back to kissing now.”

John chuckles and smiles at Sherlock’s impatience.

“If you insist.”

Sherlock smiles a smile John has never seen before (he wonders if he’ll get a chance to see it again), a simple twist of lips that expresses nothing but a shy sense of awe. “I do.”

John can feel Sherlock’s thumb begin rubbing tingling circles on his bare thigh, right where John had been shot. The two men meet in the middle when they kiss again, slow, sensual, learning and passionate.

How long this moment will last, John doesn’t know. There are more questions, and plans to be made, talks to be had...but for now, for now John can’t imagine a more perfect flash of time than this.


	17. I'll give my all to you

Chapter 16

 

John honestly never thought he would ever end up in this position. Even when he finally acknowledged his feelings for Sherlock, he didn’t truly believe they would lead to anything.

Finding himself being relentlessly, almost desperately, kissed by Sherlock Holmes against the wall of his bedroom only ever remained within the realm of fantasies, having it become a reality is a _hot_ and overwhelming feeling John isn’t sure he’ll ever get over. He doesn’t want to.

It hasn’t been long since John initiated their first kiss and then Sherlock subsequently trapped John against the wall with a determination and focus John should’ve expected. Sherlock Holmes is a perfectionist, John doesn’t know if he’s a virgin or not but if that kiss is any indication, he at least has a little experience in this area. Or maybe he’s just naturally gifted, the thought causes John to chuckle inwardly in amusement, honestly he wouldn’t be surprised if that were the case either.

Through some tangling of limbs which caused John to laugh and Sherlock to look adorably despondent, they managed to make their way over to the bed. John ensured Sherlock went first, allowing the shorter man to straddle the taller one as he attacked that long, gorgeous neck.

John wanted to assert some dominance after Sherlock’s display involving the wall, if the response John received from the detective proved anything, it was that Sherlock was very, _very_ pleased.

There were still undercurrents of the intense, fear-ridden emotional roller-coaster of before. Whether it was something the bond was doing, or the deep relief of two people letting go, all other worries and unresolved issues faded away; nothing else existed.

So of course that was when the spell got broken, at the sound of rather insistent knocking on John’s bedroom door.

 

***

 

“Sherlock! _Sherlock!_ For god’s sake calm _down!_ ” John heavily breathes out; squeezing Sherlock around his middle and pulling him back to prevent the suddenly furious detective from bounding across the room and murdering his brother. John isn’t really a fan of Mycroft’s (particularly now after John has officially decided he has the _worst_ timing), but he’d rather not let Sherlock kill the man.

 _Jesus Christ he_ _’_ _s bloody strong_! John always knew that though, especially because earlier...John fights the flush that wants to rush to his face at the thought.

“I will only _calm_ down once _he_ leaves!” Sherlock seethes.

Mycroft is standing calmly in John’s bedroom doorway, shrewd eyes flicking between Sherlock and John.

When John heard the knocking earlier, he assumed it was Greg. He had groaned and reluctantly rolled off Sherlock; landing softly on one of the man’s outstretched wings. They both were breathless, and in a lot of ways Sherlock still looked like he was in some sort of shock, or at least a daze; more than one hickey decorated the base of his neck. Once John pulled away, he sensed an underlying anxiety becoming more prevalent within Sherlock, making itself way through the joyful awe he knew they both felt when kissing; John himself wasn’t necessarily feeling any personal anxiety. But knowing that Sherlock was, possibly about something they have yet to talk about, had John feeling concerned for him and he wanted to ask Sherlock about it. He knew they would need to talk at some point. As it was, John got up from the bed, pulled on a pair of loose trousers and a t-shirt. Before heading to the door, he turned around and looked at Sherlock. Whatever happened, John couldn’t regret the kiss. His soul was brimming with an exultation he couldn’t control even when other parts of him were alighting to the unease building in Sherlock.

He didn’t go and answer the door right away, sensing that the inexperienced detective needed some reassurance one way or another. John walked over and leaned to press a soft kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. Sherlock stilled, and when John pulled away he momentarily worried that the soft, quiet affection (so different from the heady rush of before) wouldn’t be accepted by the detective. No matter what words and emotions they exchanged before, it didn’t mean that Sherlock was ready to willingly accept affection when on some level he clearly believes he doesn’t deserve it. And that just breaks John’s heart.

However, he saw that Sherlock’s eyes were wide open and staring at John with an adorable crinkle between his eyes. That penetrating gaze fixed John with a look he saw multiple times when Sherlock was trying to suss out a particularly bewildering and fascinating experiment or case component. John still saw the worry, but with relief he also saw that Sherlock was pleasantly surprised and even perhaps happier, if the brief rush through their bond was anything to go by, with that soft considered kiss rather than during the rushed snogging of before.

Neither man said anything. John had been about to go answer the door, the knocking at that point resumed, when Sherlock reached out and turned that interested gaze on Johns shoulder wound. John shifted uncomfortably but remained still when those long fingers caressed the snowflake uniqueness of his scar. The contact caused John to shudder and Sherlock looked at John with a question in his eyes.

“It’s ok.” John said with a small smile. Sherlock hesitantly smiled back.

It was a moment of such tenderness John’s heart ached. He couldn’t resist and leaned down to kiss Sherlock on the nose. John laughed when Sherlock scrunched his face up and narrowed his eyes at John.

Sherlock’s hand fell as John turned away once more to answer the door.

When John answered it and it turned out to not be Greg, but Mycroft instead...well, John had a brief ‘ _fucking hell_ ’ moment before hell metaphorically broke loose.

“Very well, I shall divest myself of your presence and return downstairs. I do hope the two of you will join me shortly, including you Sherlock, we have urgent matters to discuss.” Mycroft’s no nonsense tone breaks John out of his thoughts. “I would appreciate it if you could restrain yourself Sherlock, at least for now.” He adds with a glance at his brother.

John fully intends on keeping his hold on Sherlock, face half planted into an angry mess of feathers, until Mycroft goes so he doesn’t release the detective just yet even though Sherlock is still struggling, though less insistently than before.

“Oh anything for you _brother._ ” Sherlock growls venomously.

Mycroft doesn’t seem to care for Sherlock’s sarcasm, but he does nod his assent and with a knowing glance at the two men he leaves the room, closing the door behind him.

If John thought the silence before was awkward, it is nothing compared to the wake left behind at being found out by the brother of the man you were just kissing, not to mention said man currently hates his brother’s guts.

John is sure if he didn’t have a violent Sherlock to contend with John would’ve felt mortified. As it is, he does have a violent Sherlock to contend with so any embarrassment he might have felt at being interrupted by his partner’s (?) extremely meddling and powerful brother barely surfaced.

As soon as Mycroft shut the door Sherlock yanked himself away from John and is now pacing the room angrily.

“-that interfering bastard, how dare he, I swear I will-”

“Sherlock.” John tries to interrupts Sherlock’s furious muttering.

“-smash his smug, bulbous nose in, it’s the least he-”

“Sherlock!” John nearly has to yell in order for Sherlock to even pause.

Sherlock’s mouth snaps shut and he stops somewhere near the end of John’s bed, facing away from him, one hand gripping the wooden end of it tightly; as though it is the one thing preventing him from falling, or possibly breaking something.

“Sherlock, talk to me.” John tries to request as calmly as possible.

He walks around Sherlock so he can see his face; jaw clenching, eyes stony and an urge there John recognizes well, the urge to punch something – _someone_.

“Why John? Do you think because we kissed you now have license to know every thought of mine? Am I supposed to automatically share everything with you no questions asked?” Sherlock is half-mocking, near sneering at John.

John resists the urge to say something he’ll know he’d regret and instead rolls in his automatic bristling at Sherlock’s words and doesn’t rise to the obvious defensive bait that it is.

“Of course not, do you honestly think that’s how I feel?” John asks with disbelief. Sherlock doesn’t answer. John sighs. “Do I want you to share and talk to me? Absolutely, and I am always willing to listen, that doesn’t change with the nature of our relationship. Is it a condition on how I feel about you? No, and as far as I’m concerned it never will be. You’re a stubborn arse, and I think I know you well enough to realize that unless you want to, you won’t share anything. I may not always remember that, a bit hotheaded on occasion I know. We both are.” Sherlock is watching him closely; John takes that as a cue to keep talking. “I’m not even going to pretend I’m an expert, my relationship record hasn’t exactly been stellar, but I do know that ours is the most important one in my life; whether it’s as friends or...or something else, I am committed to making it work.” John finishes with finality. The words are surprisingly easy to say, John wonders if maybe they should be more difficult, especially considering the present circumstances. Regardless, they are true.

Sherlock looks stunned. Some of his Mycroft induced anger from before has deflated, that trickling of anxiety from before comes back, fresh uncertainty along with it that has caused Sherlock to wrap his arms around his torso.

He’s clearly forcing his breathing to remain steady.

“And all this is in spite of the fact that I piss you off more than anyone you’ve ever met?” Sherlock questions with a slight wave of his hand, his voice dripping with forced confidence.

John just smiles.

“Or because of it.” Ironically, much of the time it is the things he loves most about Sherlock that tend to piss him off.

Sherlock’s brow crinkles.

“I can’t decide whether you’re a sentimental idiot or are deliberately trying to confuse me.”

John chuckles.

“I’d go with the former.”

Sherlock frowns and looks away.

“What do you want from me?” Sherlock asks with a frustrated sigh.

John doesn’t answer right away. He breathes deeply, takes a cue from Sherlock and paces a little; thinking.

What does he want? Truthfully, he knows exactly what he wants. What he isn’t sure of is whether how honest he should be with Sherlock, he doesn’t want to frighten him off.

Sherlock is watching him and fidgeting at the same time.

John stops when he is once again in front of Sherlock, hands in front of his face for a moment before letting them fall.

“Do you really want to know?” John finds himself asking. Sherlock takes a moment to consider. Finally he braces himself, arms still wrapped around his middle protectively, and nods. _Well, alright then._ “I kept the skull you know.”

Sherlock looks confused for a moment.

“I saw that...” He trails off, obviously not sure where John is going with this.

“I couldn’t bear to live in 221b without you there, it hurt far too much. When I left to come here...I wanted to leave everything behind, but I kept the skull. Nowhere has ever felt more like home to me than that flat. I needed to bring a piece of it with me, because it didn’t seem right to leave everything of yours behind, because it was _you_ that made that place home.” John pauses. Sherlock is biting a trembling lip, his eyes are closed, expression tight. “What do I want? I want y _ou_. Just you. In whatever way you are willing.”

John swears he hears a whimper inside his head. He takes a risk and rests a palm against the taller man’s face.

Sherlock opens his eyes. John decides not to comment on the novelty of seeing Sherlock teary-eyed, and instead focuses on the naked fear he sees in them.

“I don’t know if I can do this.” Sherlock admits, subdued, shifting his eyes away from John as though afraid to see his response.

John ignores the pang in his heart for the time being.

“Alright, alright. No pressure ok?” John says, as reassuringly as possible. He moves his hand from Sherlock’s face to rub at his shoulder.

Sherlock just seems frustrated at John’s response.

“I can’t...I can’t do it John, I don’t know how.” Sherlock takes a shaky breath. “You are the bravest man I have ever known, you’ve saved my life, in so many ways and I...I’m afraid of you, of what you could do to me.” It pains Sherlock to confess that kind of weakness. He flinches and looks away at some point over John’s shoulder. “What I did to you by leaving...I rarely imagine hypothetical situations in regards to my unfortunate emotions, but recently, I accurately imagined what it would feel like if I had been in your position and for a moment...for a brief moment it felt like I _had_ lost you. If how you felt for two years is anything like I felt in that moment...I don’t know how you can bare the sight of me.”

The hollow ache of believing Sherlock to be dead rattles within John.

John nods slowly. He then reaches up with both hands and turns Sherlock’s head so he is facing him.

“This may seem like a really stupid question, but if you suddenly lost your mind, and I mean in the way that you could no longer deduce, your intelligence all but gone, no longer able to solve crimes or do anything you’re passionate about, if your mind left you by choice how would you feel?”

Sherlock gives John a weird look. “How is that-?”

“Yes I know it’s stupid, but just answer the question please.” John squeezes Sherlock’s shoulders.

Sherlock sighs.

“Devastated, I suppose. No longer myself.”

John nods again.

“And how would you feel if it came back to you? Even if you were mad, angry, would you want to let go of something so essential to your life?” John asks, willing and desperate for Sherlock to understand.

“Of course not, I would – _oh_.” Sherlock’s voice drops once he realizes what John means. John smiles sadly and doesn’t say anything. It isn’t long before Sherlock starts speaking again. “I need to think about...all this.”Sherlock lets his arms fall and gestures between John and himself.

John is starting to feel the emotional drain from all this. He loves Sherlock, and if what has happened so far shows anything, is that Sherlock must love him too even though he hasn’t said the words exactly. It might actually be helpful for both of them to not rush into anything and let all they’ve talked about settle, and wait at the very least until after this case is dealt with.

“Of course.” John lets his hands fall, unsure now how much space to afford Sherlock.

Sherlock looks at John for a moment before shaking his head. He hesitates only for a second before reaching down, grabbing John’s hands and replacing them back to where they were.

John looks at Sherlock with some surprise.

“I never thought I would ever find myself wanting this kind of contact-” Sherlock squeezes John’s hands. “-but I don’t mind when you touch me here-” Sherlock squeezes once more before releasing one hand. “-or here-” Sherlock’s hand is surprisingly steady as he presses one of Johns fingers tentatively to his lips. John gulps. “-I won’t make any blind promises or declarations, however I want you to know you are not alone in your feelings.” Sherlock says. He appears to be reining in his emotions now, getting them under better control, John can still feel that thrum of anxiety and fear but he feels more willing to accept what John has been saying, and John is grateful for that. “I just don’t know what to do with them.” He adds with a bit of frustration.

John nods with understanding. “That’s alright. Let me know when you’ve figured it out, in the mean time you can talk to me about anything, yeah?” John focuses his eyes to make sure Sherlock takes that in.

Sadness echoes through the bond and John gets the sense Sherlock wants to tell him something, it retreats however and Sherlock merely nods instead.

John smiles and places his hands on Sherlock’s face. He leans upward and Sherlock closes his eyes in anticipation. Feeling daring, John bypasses his lips altogether and kisses him on the nose.

When John pulls away Sherlock is frowning.

“Why did you do that? It is completely ridiculous.” Sherlock’s face is scrunched up unpleasantly, but there is a rosy tinge to his cheeks.

John shrugs.

“Impulse I guess, you are way too adorable.”

Sherlock’s expression darkens.

“I. Am. Not. Adorable.” Sherlock bites out.

John just backs away and laughs.

“Fine, I take it back; you’re not adorable, you’re merely...cute.” If John was laughing before, he is outright roaring now at the offended look on Sherlock’s face.

“You take that back John Watson.” Sherlock edges towards him.

Deciding the heaviness of the air needs to be cleared a bit, especially since they have to see Mycroft shortly, John decides to tease Sherlock further.

It’s too bloody fun not to.

“I will once it stops being true.” John grins.

Sherlock growls and tries to grab John. John has excellent reflexes and jumps out of the way.

“John...” Sherlock’s voice lowers dangerously.

The man can grouse all he wants, but the fact is John can feel he actually likes being called those things (thank-you magical soul bond) but is just too prideful to admit it.

“Especially when you’re frowning.” John adds. As if on cue, Sherlock frowns in response. “Yep! Just like that.” John snorts.

Sherlock immediately blanks out his face and continues stalking towards John. John has been backing towards the door and now has a hand wrapped around the knob.

“John Hamish Watson, you will cease the juvenile adjective use or there will be consequences.”

John raises an eyebrow. Sherlock still looks on the verge of actually pouncing on John, and not in a good way. John however, fearless, leans up gives Sherlock a peck on the lips.

“Alright cutie, you have my word.”

John quickly opens the door just as Sherlock lunges forward.

“Your word means nothing in this matter John Watson!”

Sherlock hollers out as John rushes down the stairs, wings flying out behind him. He can hear the thundering sounds of Sherlock chasing him.

This is what is truly ridiculous; they’re both practically middle-aged men acting like children.

This is what Sherlock does to John and really, John doesn’t mind.

 


	18. And you give me all of you

Chapter 17

 

John awkwardly slides to a halt in the doorway leading to the living room. He sees Mycroft sitting in the chair he usually occupies and Greg leaning against the mantle, looking at John with an amused smile.

Sherlock quickly follows and stops beside John, stiff as board at the sight of his brother.

The two men are breathing heavily from their playful interaction.

“Sherlock, I believe the last time I saw you run down that particular set of stairs was Christmas morning over thirty years ago. You woke up before everyone else, aside from me of course, to see if your makeshift Santa trap worked.” Mycroft comments with a raised brow in Sherlock and John’s direction.

Sherlock sends Mycroft a murderous glare, fist tightening at his side.

John blinks. _Santa trap? Seriously?_ John bites his lip to keep from laughing.

So the cottage belonged to Sherlock’s _family_...John is suddenly reminded of his dream, of the few dreams he’s had all around the same people, the cottage, Marcus, Sherlock, Mycroft.

John gasps as all the pieces fall into place... _Oh god. Those weren_ _’_ _t dreams! They were fucking memories! What else could they be?_

John knew from the start they were different, never had his dreams been quite that...detailed before. He’s only had them since Sherlock arrived, they must be his, but...how is that even possible? How...it’s got to have something to do with the bond. What other explanation is there? In the last one John had, there was a woman dying, and...Marcus _was_ there, John is sure now; it was definitely the Marcus he’s met, except younger. The wings...the woman’s wings and Marcus’s wings, they were deep soul mates, Sherlock...Sherlock was there too, also younger, the older woman called him William Sherlock Scott Holmes...that must be his full name, and at some point he dropped his first name and started going by one of his middle ones.

The older woman was his grandmother...his _grandmother._ John remembers Marcus saying; the first time they met him that Sherlock was sent here to live with his grandmother at some point during his teens.

Oh... _Oh_. Of course. John is no mind reader, but he feels like he should’ve put the pieces together way before now.

Sherlock would have.

A lot makes sense now.

John comes back to himself, and he notices three sets of eyes watching him. Greg looks vaguely concerned, Mycroft looks unsurprised. John looks up at Sherlock beside him.

He looks...distressed; eyes widened, breathing even heavier than before, wings way, way too still. Other than that he looks perfectly normal, he is probably using all his energy to appear as normal as possible in front of everyone, even John can barely get a read on his emotions right now.

He knows what John figured out; it must have read on John’s face, Sherlock has edged away from John. It is clear he didn’t want John to know, at least not yet.

Knowing what he knows, or at least suspecting what he does, John finds he isn’t surprised Sherlock has yet to say anything and...well, John can’t truly be upset because he doubts he would’ve necessarily been forthcoming about something like that either.

John hasn’t taken his eyes away from Sherlock. There is a daring look in the man’s eyes, he expects John to say something, maybe to get angry or confront him.

John wants to say something, he does, but...if he’s right, it really isn’t his place to officially say something first. Mycroft knew exactly what he was doing, probably made that comment on purpose the damn fucker, to give John a push into figuring out the answers to the myriad of questions he’s had drifting around his mind.

He reaches up and simply squeezes Sherlock’s shoulder, giving him a small smile.

Sherlock looks surprised. Leaving his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, John turns to face Mycroft.

“Now, why are you here Mycroft?” John asks.

Mycroft surveys John with a pensive look and gives him a nod of approval before leaning back in his chair.

“I’d quite like to know that as well.” Greg seconds.

“Sherlock, why don’t you reiterate to Greg what I’m sure you told John about Moran.” Mycroft motions to his brother before standing up. “In the meantime, I’m going to get tea.”

Ah, so he is here about the case, John figured as much. Mycroft is not pleasant to deal with, but if he can somehow help them in catching this Sophia Moran, he’ll accept his help without question. He’ll deal with the repercussions of having Sherlock and Mycroft in the same room later.

“You’re getting your own tea?” John finds himself blurting out, not sure why he finds the idea so odd.

Sherlock snorts.

Mycroft pauses on route to the kitchen.

“Contrary to what some might think, I am not entirely dependent on those in my employ. I am perfectly capable of getting my own tea when I feel motivated to do so.” Mycroft responds, a bit coolly.

He exits the living room and it is as if everyone takes a collective deep breath.

“I tell you, you’re pure sunshine compared to him Sherlock. He gives me the creeps.” Greg says while bending down to stoke the fire.

“I _can_ hear you.” Mycroft’s voice echoes from the kitchen.

John, again, bites his lip to keep from laughing.

Sherlock looks amused. That vanishes when John lets his hand fall and his attention is once more on the doctor.

He doesn’t say anything, just watches John.

John shifts a bit under that penetrating gaze.

“What?” John shrugs, trying to seem casual.

Sherlock narrows his eyes.

 _You haven_ _’_ _t said anything._

John nods.

 _No, I haven_ _’_ _t._

Sherlock tilts his head.

_Why?_

To be honest, if John had never had those dreams, he might have said something. There was something so personal about them, if John’s crazy arse theory about them somehow being real, Sherlock’s memories or something (who knows), then he is sure Sherlock never meant for him to see them.

Regardless, now is really not the time for John to say anything. Maybe later, after Mycroft’s gone, assuming there’s even time.

 _Because it would be a bit dickish of me if I brought it up with your brother right here, and besides, I figure there_ _’_ _s a reason you haven_ _’_ _t told me?_

Sherlock looks taken aback, he does nod however.

 _You would_ _’_ _ve said something a few days ago._ Sherlock notes, it isn’t a question.

John nods begrudgingly. True, if by some miracle he suspected what he’s pretty sure to be the truth now, a few days ago he might have said something right away.

A lot has changed in a few days though.

_Maybe._

_What changed?_

John raises an eyebrow. It’s not just the dreams, he does want to tell Sherlock about them, at least find out _why_ he’s having them (Sherlock might not even know).

There is another very important thing that has changed within the past few days. John takes a deep breath.

_I realized exactly how much you mean to me._

Sherlock’s mouth parts, John’s eyes flick to his lips before focusing back on his eyes.

Sherlock looks at John with a frown between his eyes, he reaches with a hand and John struggles to breathe when Sherlock caresses John’s cheek with his fingertips; lightly, as though experimenting.

 _I accept that answer, but don_ _’_ _t think I don_ _’_ _t realize there is something you_ _’_ _re not telling me._ Sherlock thinks as he lets his hand fall from Johns face.

 _I_ _’_ _ll tell you later._

Sherlock nods and turns away from John. John doesn’t begrudge Sherlock for keeping his emotions firmly under wraps for the moment; Mycroft’s presence in the house doesn’t help at all.

Sherlock walks over to the chair opposite the one Mycroft was sitting in and lounges in it; legs hanging off one arm rest, close to the fire, head resting on the other, eyes closed, his wings are curled and tucked beneath him, trailing out along his sides.

John smiles a bit at the sight of Sherlock doing that, so typical of when they were at Baker Street.

“John?” Sherlock pipes up from the chair, hands now resting across his abdomen. John figures he’s doing the Sherlock form of centering himself, likely realizing that no matter how pissed he is at his brother (for whatever reason) that if he can help them with the case, a case in which John is the primary target, Sherlock will put up with him.

John is instantly reminded of several aspects of their conversations earlier, about how dedicated he is in protecting John, how there is nothing he wouldn’t do for him. John feels the same way about Sherlock.

“Yeah.” John stretches his arms above his head, wings automatically following the movement. Peripherally he notices the firelight reflect on the metallic sheen of the feathers.

“Why are you still standing over there?” He asks, still with his eyes closed.

John rolls his eyes.

“I was thinking.” John shrugs and walks over to Sherlock.

“Hm, arduous I’m sure.” Sherlock mumbles.

John gives him a playful smack upside the head.

“Ow!” Sherlock pins an affronted expression on John as he rubs his head.

Greg chuckles under his breath as he replaces the poker on its stand.

John smiles and looks down at the frowning detective.

Sherlock grumbles and turns back to face the ceiling with closed eyes. John watches the detective for a moment more before turning to look at the fire, grateful for the warmth dancing on his skin.

“John.” Sherlock says from behind him.

“Mm?”

“You’re still standing. Sit down, right here.” Sherlock pats the armrest where his head is. Even though he can’t see, John faces Sherlock and crosses his arms. When John doesn’t respond Sherlock sighs. “Please.”

John smirks.

“There, was that so hard?”

“Very.”

John rolls his eyes again and waits for Sherlock to lift his head. John sits on the wide, cushiony armrest and Sherlock places his head atop John’s thigh.

The entire series of movements is extremely natural despite the newness of their ‘sort of maybe thing’.

John likes it.

Sherlock still has his eyes closed, so John is the only one who sees Greg giving them a knowing look and a smirk.

John gives a tiny shrug and looks down at Sherlock once before meeting Greg’s eyes.

Greg’s eyes say how happy he is, his face says I am so going to tease you about this later.

The faint tinkling sounds of Mycroft making his tea are the only sounds to break the silence.

 _What are you thinking about?_ John thinks to Sherlock.

Sherlock continues to breathe evenly, though his hands are now in his typical thinking position beneath his chin.

_Sophia Moran. I suspect that Mycroft is here to help formulate a plan for her capture, now that it is unlikely she will return to the bunker, or the other ones we have little to no frame of reference for where she could be hiding. I hate to admit it but we stand a better chance of finding her with his resources and I am willing to put up with his presence now that we may have no other choice._

John nods, barely resisting the urge to card his fingers through Sherlock’s curls.

 _What was that Japanese character about?_ John finds himself asking, Sherlock never mentioned it when he was giving him his explanation of the Morans. At Sherlock’s mention of the bunker the little detail returned to Johns mind as unexplained.

 _M is a consonant, N is the only character that isn't_ _paired with vowels in Japanese, that particular character, more specifically from the katakana syllabary,_ _long ago carved into the cement is the first character of the Japanese transliteration of Moran,_ _‘_ _mo_ _’_ _the beginning two English letters for Moran. During my investigation into Sebastian Moran, I discovered his father spent a significant amount of time in Japan during the Second World War._ Sherlock’s voice echoes in a monotone.

Huh, alright then.

 _Just how many languages do you know?_ John asks curiously. He knows that Sherlock is quite the linguist and yet in all his time of knowing him he has no idea how far his talent in that area goes.

_I am fluent in fifteen, speaking, writing and reading, including Hebrew, Gaelic and Mandarin. I have adequate knowledge of five others._

John’s eyes pop.

 _Wow, you really are a genius aren_ _’_ _t you?_

Sherlock opens one eye and quirks a brow at John.

_I am merely dedicated in the pursuit of knowledge valuable to my work, being able to communicate is vital._

John gives him a slightly skeptical look.

 _Sherlock Holmes, you are many things but humble isn_ _’_ _t one of them._

Sherlock pouts. John honest to god giggles, which might have been Sherlock’s intent because he’s now smirking.

_Yes, fine, I am a notorious genius. Happy now Watson?_

_What do you think Holmes?_ John pokes Sherlock’s cheek.

Sherlock looks serious for a moment, a contemplative look in his eyes that has John feeling suddenly somber.

_I believe you are happier now than you were this morning, even though you found out a serial killer has made it her mission to kill you in order to make me feel her pain._

John looks at the sad and angry expression on Sherlock’s face. He doesn’t internally respond, merely nods his head and tweaks a loose curl hanging on Sherlock’s forehead.

“Hey, you two.” Both Sherlock and John abruptly whip their heads around to face Greg; watching them with a curious expression. “Should I be worried?” Greg waves a hand between the two of them, likely indicating that he suspected they were communicating internally.

“No worries mate, we weren’t gossiping about you.” John shrugs.

Sherlock twists his face in distaste at the word gossip; however he eyes John with an amused twinkle.

“It isn’t truly gossip if we are discussing the truth, although that can be relative to the individuals in question. However I think we can both agree that Lestrade continues to harbor a particular affection for Molly Hooper.” Sherlock teases.

Greg blushes and John has a hard time not laughing, he is able to resist in the end.

“Fuck off.”

Sherlock preens and resumes his earlier thinking posture, eyes closed. John rolls his eyes.

“Alright, alright, enough. Sherlock, shouldn’t you be telling Greg about....?” John trails off.

Sherlock’s eyes flash open again; he looks at John somberly before putting on a mask of gravity and facing Greg.

“Mhm, I’d quite like to know what it is everybody else knows that I don’t. Who is Moran?” Greg asks, leaning against the mantle.

John feels Sherlock stiffen slightly.

It only takes a moment, but soon Sherlock begins reiterating everything he told John...well, almost everything. It’s obvious Sherlock is only telling Greg what he needs to know, since the only details Sherlock is leaving out are largely personal ones that have no actual bearing on the case (namely Sherlock’s depth of feeling for John), John doesn’t say anything.

Sherlock recites the information with as little emotion as possible, and by the time Mycroft returns with a steaming cup of tea, Greg has absorbed the information and is asking his first question.

“So this woman is after John and we have no idea where she could be?” Greg has straightened his position, continuing to watch Sherlock with a grave and focused eye much like when he was speaking.

He didn’t seem all that surprised when Sherlock neglected to mention all that information, although John noticed him twitch with irritation that Sherlock hid as much as he did.

He also seemed just as outraged as John when Sherlock mentioned someone had betrayed him.

Sherlock straightens out of his lounging position and elegantly arranges himself in the chair, wings hanging gently off the sides. John doesn’t move from his spot on the arm rest.

Sherlock is about to speak when Mycroft enters the room holding his tea.

“Unfortunately my people lost track of her about five kilometers from the bunker, she obviously had a plan in case her choice locations became unusable. Regrettably we have only theories as to where she could be, since her three warning targets –so to speak –have been dealt with, her primary focus now will be John and since she knows we are closer to her than she’d like, she’ll probably up her efforts.” Mycroft answers Greg’s question and resumes his spot in John’s typical chair, brolly leaning against it.

“We have _no time_ for theories. I can’t believe your people lost her, useless.” Sherlock grounds out, looking at his brother with disdain. The urge to say more, or do more, possibly set Mycroft on fire (though only John can do that) is practically crawling out of Sherlock’s skin.

To John’s surprise, Mycroft doesn’t respond with a put upon remark like he usually does when he thinks Sherlock is being childish, he simply frowns at Sherlock and accepts the words without comment.

John looks between the two in confusion. _Seriously, what is going with them?[_

“Mm. Miss Moran will be waiting for her earliest opportunity to take John, and I don’t doubt she won’t hesitate to take advantage of it when it comes. This won’t be easy, as she likely knows by this point, her impatience on top of her already fragile emotional state. She is clever, but anyone who is emotional is much more likely to make mistakes, or overlook something.” Mycroft casually taps his brolly on the floor (the rhythm reminds John of a metronome) and glances at Sherlock with a pointed brow.

Sherlock’s jaw tightens and his hands clench on the armrests. It doesn’t escape John’s notice that Sherlock has positioned his left hand so it is resting along the edge of John’s thigh.

“You would know all about that wouldn’t you?” Sherlock retorts frostily.

Mycroft sighs, though he doesn’t deny it. Both Greg and John are now very much aware of the rising tension between the brothers.

“I am merely making the point to posit that we should take advantage of the situation now before she has time to recuperate and potentially make her capture more difficult.”

Sherlock nods reluctantly. “I concur.” Sherlock says, eyes narrowed in thought.

“So what do we do?” John asks, fresh out of ideas.

Mycroft stills the movement of his umbrella and pins Sherlock with an intense gaze.

As soon as Sherlock’s eyes meet Mycroft’s a dark cloud seems to erupt from Sherlock and he slowly pushes himself up from the chair. John watches with wide eyes, he rarely sees Sherlock look quite this menacing.

“ _No_.” Sherlock growls out threateningly in Mycroft’s direction. “Absolutely _not._ ”

John moves to stand up and looks between the two in confusion.

“Do you have a better idea?” Mycroft responds, unaffected by Sherlock’s words.

“Any idea is better than _that one!_ ” Sherlock yells.

“Am I missing something here?” John interjects, standing between the men, hopefully to avoid an actual fist fight.

The sudden rush of fury that even Sherlock couldn’t hold back worries John.

Sherlock responds without taking his eyes away from Mycroft.

“No, Mycroft was just being an _idiot._ ”

Mycroft sighs.

“Sherlock, this has the best chance-”

“Do you _honestly_ think I will trust any of your ideas after what _you've_ done?” Sherlock utters low and dangerous, body thrumming with anger.

An ominous, tense silence follows those words.

After what he did... _god, it was bloody Mycroft._

John gasps.

“It was you.” John breaks the silence.

John has never fully trusted Mycroft, his very position makes that near impossible, but never did John ever think he would betray his own brother in this way...it’s...it’s incomprehensible.

Greg seems to get where John has gone because like John, he looks very angry too.

John sees red before any reason can crack through him. He rushes forward and pulls Mycroft with soldier strength out of his chair and holds him up by the lapels of his suit.

“You better start talking fast Mycroft, and it better be a damn good explanation because if it isn’t you will have three, very, _very_ angry men who have been trained in the use of guns, and I haven’t shot anyone in far too long a time.” (John wouldn’t actually shoot Mycroft, but the anger and threat come across as being scarily real, even Mycroft looks unsettled in the face of Johns rage.)

John’s first thought when the inexplicable revelation that Mycroft is the betrayer is that he put his Sherlock in danger, could’ve gotten him killed for fucks sake, any thought about how that means John is now in danger because of him barely computed.

No, his rage is almost entirely fueled by the intense desire to protect Sherlock from danger and right now, in John’s mind Mycroft is dangerous.

It then occurs to John that those innocent people are dead because for whatever insane reason Mycroft didn’t keep his mouth _shut._

That thought just makes John angrily _throw_ Mycroft back in his chair (the man grunts with pain). He crosses his arms and assumes a threatening stance in front of Mycroft, whom he is trying very, _very_ hard not to punch right now.

Greg is shooting Mycroft daggers with his eyes.

Suddenly the way Sherlock’s been acting around him is perfectly understandable to say the least.

John glances at Sherlock, still standing behind him.

John doesn’t think he’s seen Sherlock smiling quite that wide in a long time, he looks downright thrilled at John’s reaction to Mycroft; wings fluttering. There is something else there too, wonder at the intensity of John’s loyalty. John’s heart aches for a moment at the sight.

He gives Sherlock a reassuring smile and nods before turning his piercing gaze back to Mycroft.

Behind him he feels Sherlock edge closer.

Mycroft doesn’t appear ruffled for a moment, and then he runs a tired hand down his face and looks at John with what could be considered regret.

“You must understand it was never my intention to cause you or Sherlock harm.” Mycroft says slowly. John scoffs, and he can feel the tide of anger in Sherlock rise. “Neither one of us knew Sebastian Moran had a daughter.” Mycroft takes a deep breath. “As far as I was concerned, with Moran gone there were no longer any major threats, the few underlings left behind I could have easily dealt with my resources. I wanted Sherlock to return home rather than finish the remaining months it would’ve taken to...pick off –so to speak –the remaining loose threads. He was rather insistent on finishing what he started, wouldn’t listen to reason as usual-” John can practically feel Sherlock’s gaze darkening even though John is studiously facing Mycroft. “-I had no choice but to force his hand, so I made a calculated decision. I anonymously leaked Sherlock’s location and his real identity.”

“Up until that point the majority of Moriarty’s network weren’t even aware it was Sherlock dismantling it, being largely undercover for most if not all the time, and the very, very few that did went after Sherlock themselves rather than alert others.” Mycroft pauses and breathes deeply, he averts John’s increasingly dark stare by choosing to watch the fire. “I was careful to not put Sherlock in any actual danger, when two men cornered Sherlock in Milan a few of my operatives were there, although I give Sherlock applause for dealing with the men so swiftly before mine could intervene.” Mycroft looks back at John. “At that point it didn’t take Sherlock long to figure out what happened, needless to say he was not...happy.” Mycroft twists his lip unpleasantly. “With no small amount of ranting and protests, Sherlock agreed to come to one of our designated safe houses. We had a long discussion-” Sherlock scoffs. “-in which I explained my reasons, now that his cover was, for all intents and purposes, blown he was no longer needed and could return to England. He refused to leave, until...” Mycroft trails, eyes unyielding from Johns.

“Until Sophia.” John whispers, heart pounding.

Mycroft nods.

Abruptly all of Sherlock’s emotions seem to suddenly disappear, or at least are cut off. Feeling a bit panicked, John turns just in time to see Sherlock walking –more like running –out of the room; John has never seen his face look so...blank, though the shaking and sharpened edges of his wings betray the intensity of the emotions swirling within him. He doesn’t need a soul bond with Sherlock to tell that the man was just about ready to strangle Mycroft.

John’s first instinct is to follow him, but a nagging thought stops him and he turns to face Mycroft once more.

“Why did you insist on Sherlock coming home right then?”

John is fucking thrilled Sherlock is back, despite the circumstances. Knowing that he could’ve been gone even longer, John is so glad Sherlock came back when he did. No matter the frightful lack of tact. However John couldn’t help but notice that Mycroft didn’t mention exactly _why_ he felt it was necessary, and that is before Sophia Moran was even a known threat.

Mycroft fixes John with a considering gaze.

“Sherlock may never admit it, at least not fully, but he wasn’t the only one suffering...separation anxiety.” Mycroft finally says. John frowns. “I knew, however long it took, taking down Moriarty’s network would take its toll on my brother. I was concerned, several times; that he would regress to the man he was before he met you. Long before, and he might’ve returned to cocaine and heroin, or worse he would lose any semblance of humanity he gained by having the pleasure of your acquaintance. Or past experiences would raise their ugly heads and Sherlock would have time to stew in their hold, and possibly make a choice that in the end would do more harm than good. I realize my attitude and actions leave much to be desired, however I do care a great deal about my brother and recognize the positive changes meeting you has had on him. Towards the latter end of those two years, after Sherlock made one of his infrequent reports back to me, I could tell something was off. He didn’t say anything, but I knew that he was getting to the point where he wouldn’t even want to go back.” Mycroft pauses at that point, letting John digest what he just told him.

John feels a bit sick to his stomach and his arms, stiff from having been firmly crossed for so long, fall away.

_He was thinking about not coming back?_

Mycroft must read John’s unease because he quickly starts speaking again.

“You must understand John; my brother was cold and maintained the persona of a sociopath before he met you. Whatever heart he had, he either denied or kept buried away. I used to think this was for the best, and I still believe caring to be a disadvantage, and recent events have only served to cement that belief. However, when I heard my brother’s voice that last time before all the commotion with Moran...I knew something had to change, I couldn’t risk him staying in exile any longer lest he confirm my worst fears. My brother is incredibly stubborn as you very well know; there was only one way to get him to go home. And that was to make it impossible for him to stay, if the remaining members of the network knew of his existence there would be no point to his remaining in Europe because essentially he would be useless. He knew there was no way I would let him out of my sight now that he had no further opportunity to play hide and seek. Of course, all this became somewhat moot when people essential to Sherlock’s defeat of Moran suddenly disappeared and Sophia Moran revealed herself. I was shocked to say the least, more so because we never knew of her existence. Sherlock of course was livid, and though I regret what it took, deeply, you being in danger did force Sherlock to return to England. You are his weakness Dr Watson.” Mycroft continues to keep that unnerving stare sharp on John.

John’s heart is pounding, and in the not so far distance he can feel Sherlock’s heart doing much the same.

He ignores the swoop of emotions Mycroft’s words are giving him and asks him another question.

“But why wouldn’t he want to come back? I don’t get it.” John paces a little, and Mycroft gives John an almost pitying look.

“I did say John that you weren’t the only one suffering from your separation.” Mycroft hums.

John frowns into the fire; thinking.

Sherlock didn’t want to come back because he was suffering?

Knowing what he knows now, John isn’t really all that shocked Sherlock felt his own manner of grief over being away from home.

Believing Sherlock to be dead caused more thoughts and feelings to torture John every single damn day, even when he was busy. Sherlock’s mind is a supersonic machine that never turns itself off, but why would he... _oh_. John breathes in sharply.

“Indeed, you know my brother better than anyone; I knew you would get there.” Mycroft replies as though he heard John’s thoughts.

Suddenly John finds he no longer wants to be in Mycroft’s presence, no matter how well-intentioned his motivation, John still doesn’t believe what Mycroft did was right. More than any other people, the Holmes’s have an uncanny ability to ignite Johns temper.

John needs to be with Sherlock right now. They need to talk.

He sighs.

“I know we still have to work out what to do about Moran, but Sherlock and I need to talk first.” John firmly says to Mycroft. The taller man doesn’t look surprised and merely nods. John turns to Greg, who had been silently watching this whole time. “Keep him entertained until we’re back.”

Greg looks like a cross between terrified and annoyed for a brief moment, he nods with a sigh however.

John gives him a grateful smile before turning to exit the living room and follow Sherlock.

He finds him in the kitchen. Sherlock is sitting in one of the chairs at the table, hands clasped; chin resting on top of them, unwavering eyes stare out the window. He looks...resigned, and smaller than John has ever seen him.

John stops for a moment, heart aching as he takes in the sight of the younger man. Sherlock turns to give John a brief look, an expression of defeat and wariness in his eyes, before turning to resume his gaze out the window. His wings droop lower than John thought possible, and he rests his forehead on his hands so John can no longer see his face.

“I see Mycroft has finished speaking to you.” Sherlock’s voice rumbles out loud and clear.

John nods, slowly pulling out the chair beside Sherlock and taking a seat.

“He said you were considering not coming back.”

Sherlock turns to look at John, he seems surprised when he sees John’s face.

“You are not angry.” Sherlock’s voice comes out quiet.

John breathes deeply and shakes his head. He had been, for a moment, but when he realized the reason why...well, John still hates the possibility of Sherlock never returning, but he can understand Sherlock’s reasons. They are what everyone, at one time or another, would like to do when it comes to painful emotions; run away, rather than confront them head on.

“No, I’m not.” John doesn’t elaborate.

Sherlock’s brow creases for a moment, but then he resumes his earlier stance and hides his face away from John.

“You are an infinitely confusing man John Watson.” Sherlock mumbles. John can feel the sadness wafting from him, but there is a hint of pleased amazement there too.

John laughs briefly.

“Pot, kettle, black.” John moves himself a bit closer to Sherlock. Sherlock chuckles, though the sound is a void of emotion. “I know you like to pretend you are above such things, but Sherlock, you are more human than anyone I’ve ever known.” At this Sherlock whips up to face John, looking genuinely astonished. “You _are_ , and whatever logical reason you came up with in that monster head of yours, you wanted to do what many humans do when confronted with something they don’t want to face. You wanted to run away, because...” John pauses, heart suddenly racing. Sherlock has yet to protest, watching John silently with an intense gaze. “I think you had begun to realize exactly how much I mean to you, and that scared you, which reminded you of what you lost...” This is the first time John has openly acknowledged what he realized before. The declaration has Sherlock squirming uncomfortably, facing away from John again. A stronger waft of sadness echoes from him though John can see he is desperately trying to hide it. “You didn’t want to open yourself up to that kind of pain.” John finally finishes.

John has the thought that maybe this bond with Sherlock is giving him more emotional insight than he ever had before.

He hesitates for moment, but finally John gives into the urge to wrap his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders (his arm brushes against Sherlock’s wings) and rest his forehead against the man he loves so deeply, more than he ever thought he would ever love anyone.

“Talk to me Sherlock.” John whispers.

A hollow sob echoes through Sherlock’s chest. The sound shocks John for a moment, though he doesn’t show it. He squeezes Sherlock tight.

“I’ve already made myself so weak to you. I hate this.” Sherlock grits.

John nods against Sherlock’s shoulder.

“I know.” That’s what love is, allowing yourself to be vulnerable, John echoes words his mother once spoke to him.

Sherlock huffs humourlessly.

“You have changed the very definition of what I deem to be acceptable.” Sherlock voices.

John chuckles.

“I think we’ve both done that.” John kisses the side of Sherlock’s neck, directly on a spot where a red, bruised hickey flares on his skin. He momentarily thinks maybe, in this moment, that gesture was a bit too far, but Sherlock doesn’t react negatively.

If anything, John feels a renewed sense of reassurance swirling through the miasma of sadness and anger in Sherlock.

“Genie was my grandmother.” Sherlock finally says after a few minutes of silence. John tenses for only a moment. Should he tell Sherlock now about his dreams? No, no yet, John finally decides. “I loved her, more than my own parents. As far as parents go, they were perfectly fine. I was never neglected, Mummy is an intelligent woman and Father still has an unfortunate love of bowties.” Sherlock pauses. “They never fully...understood me however. Oh they loved me well enough in their own way, but I think my extremely precocious and unruly behaviour caused them much stress, in a lot of ways I was closer to Mycroft when I was young rather than my own parents. Genie though, grandmother, she...” Sherlock’s voice breaks a little here, and he near growls at himself. John doesn’t say anything and patiently waits for Sherlock to continue. “She was my first soul mate, my Father’s mother, and the one person who never made me feel like an outcast or a freak. She understood me, made me feel special, and loved me the way my parents should have, she encouraged my interests and never scolded me when I didn’t respond to something the way a normal child would have. I loved her more than anything. In many ways, she was more a mother to me than my biological one ever was.” Sherlock takes in a shaky breath. John holds him tighter, muttering _“_ _it_ _’_ _s ok, it_ _’_ _s ok_ _”_ under his breath when he feels barely restrained sadness threaten to spill over. Sherlock takes comfort in John’s presence and determination overrules his emotions for the time being.

“I often would stay with her, this was her house and I...I never felt more at home than I did when in this cottage. Because of that, it wasn’t long before I met Marcus. He was my idol; incredibly intelligent and shared my love of science, he tutored me and even though Grandmother would scold him for it he allowed me into the morgue. When I was older, he let me sit in on autopsies. It was quite fascinating.” A faint smile twists Sherlock’s mouth but it soon fades. “He became a surrogate father so to speak. He isn’t my biological grandfather; he died long before I was born. Marcus met my Grandmother shortly after I turned two; they bonded and became intimately involved almost immediately, though their relationship remained primarily one of friendship. They were happy. I have never seen happier people. They were my real parents in my eyes, still are even now.” Sherlock’s hands fall from his chin to rest on the table.

“Grandmother kept bees. That was how she made a living, making and selling honey. They are incredibly fascinating creatures; I always enjoyed watching and studying their single minded symbiosis. For a while I fancied raising some of my own, and maybe doing experiments and studying criminology on the side. That changed when Grandmother was diagnosed with brain cancer.” Sherlock’s voice takes on a dark edge. John tenses. So that’s what was wrong with her...John remembers the utterly frail woman on the bed, on the verge of death. _Oh Sherlock..._ “It was winter; she collapsed in the back yard. Marcus was there. When the ambulance came and took her away I didn’t understand why, didn't want to. It wasn’t long before a doctor diagnosed her. Of course I knew what cancer was, and the mortality rate of brain cancer, especially one as serious as hers. She was sick for so long, and even after surgery and then when she went into remission, her body never fully recovered from the trauma, though she tried to hide it there was memory of it on her face all the time. And the threat of re-emergence of the cancer was always high. I didn’t deal with it...well.” Sherlock speaks quickly.

“Rebellious became a mild term for how I was through much of my teenage years, I started doing drugs, they provided the relief my mind wouldn’t give me. I went to rehab twice, and finally my parents sent me to live with my grandmother. My doing drugs devastated her; she was more paranoid than Mycroft about keeping them away from me. For a while, our relationship was strained, I would fight her all the time. She never fought back, neither did Marcus. They let me work out my anger in my own time and then...then Grandmother’s cancer returned, and this time, it was everywhere and it was terminal.” Sherlock’s voice turns hollow and broken, pain breaking through years and years of repression.

John feels tears begin to well up in his eyes at the sight of Sherlock being in so much pain. He remembers what it was like to lose his mother; it is a wound that never fully heals.

John is careful not to say anything when silent tears fall down Sherlock’s face. He gently manoeuvres Sherlock’s head to rest against his own, wanting to provide some measure of comfort and reminder that he is loved.

“She died three months later. I...I foolishly thought I could find a cure, I studied and experimented, did whatever I could and still I found nothing that could save her. I hated my heart for daring to feel the pain of her loss, I couldn’t think, could barely breathe; I retreated after her death...in more ways than one. I returned to drugs, absorbed myself in my work, and vowed never to allow myself the debilitating pain of loss. Once was quite enough. My mind was all I had left. And then...you had to come along and destroy me all over again.” Sherlock’s voice is barely audible at the end, tears flowing freely now without shame. “She called me Billy.” Sherlock’s hollow laugh is choked with his tears. “You see, Sherlock is my middle name. I was born William Sherlock Scott Holmes-” John of course knows this already; he doesn’t say anything however and continues to hold Sherlock. “-and when she died I couldn’t bear to be called William or Billy, the name...reminded me too much of her. So, I started going by Sherlock.” He sniffles. “I really am weak John.”

John doesn’t need to hear more. He breathes in shakily and holds Sherlock as strongly as his arms will allow.

There is something so...wrong about Sherlock crying, it makes John feel sick and helpless. He wants to do more, wants to make the pain stop even though he knows there’s nothing he can do.

So he does the only thing he can do. He holds Sherlock in his arms and exudes as much love as he can, whether Sherlock wants to feel it or not. The man’s tears are silent, but John can feel the dampness forming on his shirt.

Large hands suddenly grip the material of Johns (Marcus’s) shirt with incredible tightness, as though if Sherlock were to let go, John would disappear also. Sherlock then rests his head in the middle of John’s chest.

It is as their wings move towards each other and caress that John steels himself to speak.

“You are the strongest man I have ever known. This...this...” John says, struggling not to lose it, squeezing Sherlock and reaching out to wipe a lone tear away from Sherlock’s cheek. “This only makes me more certain of that than ever before. You are not weak Sherlock Holmes, you lost someone very dear to you, and it wasn’t your fault or your responsibility to save her-” Sherlock chokes out another sob and John holds him tighter, voice growing steadier and strong. It feels as though Sherlock is finally letting out years of pent up pain he never fully allowed himself to feel. “-she sounded like such a wonderful woman and I am so happy you had her in your life, she obviously loved you nearly as much as I do-” Sherlock flings his arms around John, breathing hotly into his t-shirt, trying to calm himself down. “-and if there is one thing I know, it is that feeling pain, not just bearing it, is the surest sign of strength.”

Sherlock chuckles.

“You got that from your mother.” Sherlock mumbles.

John blushes. He’s never been one to give out particularly helpful wisdom, which was his mothers department. The chaos of the last few days has had John thinking about her a lot, wishing she were alive.

“No I didn’t.” John responds, indignant, though only teasing. “I can be wise you know.”

Sherlock chuckles again and rolls his eyes.

“On occasion.”

“Arse.”

The heavy emotion is lightened somewhat, which was John’s intention. The wake of sadness is still present though, and John knows there isn’t really anything he can do about that.

Suddenly, Sherlock speaks.

“She would’ve loved you.” Sherlock utters solemnly. He pulls himself away from John and stands up.

John feels a pang at Sherlock no longer being close and in his arms, but he recognizes that Sherlock obviously needs some space.

John finds himself smiling at Sherlock’s words.

“And I would have been honoured to know her.” John says with strong conviction.

Sherlock’s mouth twitches into a sad smile.

He wants to tell Sherlock about the dreams, but Sherlock is already retreating from the conversation and John doesn’t want to push him. Later, John tells himself, later.

“Well, enough of that.” Sherlock waves a hand and casually wipes the drying tear tracks from his face. “We have a serial killer to catch.”

John isn’t surprised at Sherlock’s abrupt change of tone. He nods and stands up too. Sherlock moves away from John and towards the kitchen doorway.

“Sherlock.” Sherlock stops and turns to face John, not quite meeting his eyes.

John moves towards him and places a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I’m glad you told me.”

Sherlock blinks for a moment, and then nods sharply. John wishes he would say...something, but isn’t surprised when he doesn’t.

Sherlock moves to exit the kitchen. John turns around, wanting to take a moment to himself to digest it all. He rests his hands on the table top and hangs his head.

No wonder Sherlock is so distant from his emotions...everything John has found out, the way Sherlock is now, his behaviour, his tentative caring... it is like stretching muscles he hasn’t used in years. John is sure, more than ever, that Sherlock has a heart of such huge proportions that it simply hurts so much to feel. And John will fight tooth and nail with anyone who attempts to argue otherwise. It figures Sherlock’s depth of feeling is just as wide as the enormity of his intellect, though it doesn’t seem so to others. John doesn’t doubt that Sherlock still has problems relating to or showing consideration towards the feelings of strangers, and still has a penchant foot in mouth syndrome and not really caring about it, but for the people he _does_ care about...John, Greg, Mrs Hudson, even Molly, his loyalty and love is endless. He just doesn’t show it the way ordinary people do. Sherlock has never been ordinary.

John isn’t sure how all these new revelations will affect their maybe relationship, Sherlock might decide that no matter how he feels, he might not want to take that final leap and John wouldn’t blame him. He’ll be sad, incredibly so, but he’ll understand and having Sherlock as his friend will be infinitely better than not having him at all.

John’s thoughts are suddenly interrupted when he feels a large hand stroke the outer edge of his left wing. The pleasure zings through John’s body.

“I know what you’re thinking.” Sherlock says, much calmer than before.

John smiles faintly.

“Of course you do.” John hadn’t realized Sherlock was even still here.

John feels a wave of disappointment when that hand disappears from his wings. He doesn’t feel it for long.

“John. Look at me.”

John turns, surprised at the conviction in Sherlock’s voice. When he faces Sherlock he finds the man smiling, and even though there are twinges of sadness lingering in his eyes there is tentative hope there also.

Those wide stormy eyes stare at John in a way he has never seen before. John can feel his heart picking up speed as Sherlock slowly stalks toward him and only stops when he is chest to chest with John.

John doesn’t move.

Sherlock is pinning John with such sensual focus, a hand rises and lightly touches Johns face.

John shivers.

“I never took much stock in the last words my Grandmother said to me, because they were her last words. I didn’t want to think about them.” Sherlock utters quietly, more to himself than to John, hand coming to rest within John’s soft, slightly grey, amber blond hair. “You need...you need to know that I...”

John shakes his head.

“You don’t need to say it.”

Sherlock suddenly grips John’s hair almost painfully.

“ _No._ ” Sherlock near growls out. “I do. It’s a truth that is becoming tiring to deny.” Sherlock’s lips are suddenly lightly grazing against Johns in a painfully tender kiss, so at odds with the tight desperate way Sherlock’s hand is gripping his hair. Before John can even reciprocate Sherlock pulls away. “I love you, John Watson.”

 _Fuck, now I_ _’_ _m crying._

John smiles a watery smile and wraps his arms around Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock staggers backwards a little with the force of John’s embrace. John never thought he would ever actually hear those words, and hearing them now...is more beautiful than John ever thought it would be.

Strong arms come up and wrap around John’s middle.

“I love you too.” John whispers into Sherlock’s neck.

He feels Sherlock shiver.

“I don’t want you dating anyone else.” Sherlock suddenly says, fierce and possessive.

John laughs, and if the way Sherlock pushes him away and fixes John with a stare of unease, he doesn’t appreciate it.

“I’m sorry Sherlock, there’s just...there is no way I’d even consider dating anyone else when I am so hopelessly in love with you. Idiot.” John punches Sherlock playfully and moves away from him, whether it’s adrenaline from the release of emotions or something else, John is still laughing.

“I don’t see how this is in anyway hilarious.” Sherlock mutters, following John as he moves back towards the living room.

John stops right outside the doorway and turns to face an irritated looking Sherlock.

“Alright, I’m going to ask you three questions and please answer them honestly.” John places his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock straightens up and nods. “Do you want to commit to a romantic relationship with me and are you interested in sex?”

The last isn’t really a breaking point for John, he loves that kind of intimacy and the idea of possibly sharing it with Sherlock has fire coursing through his blood. However, he knows that if Sherlock doesn’t want to go that route, John can learn to live with it.

Sherlock looks considering for a moment.

He nods. “Yes...”

“You still need some time before we make it official?” John finishes for him. Sherlock looks at John a bit uncertain, but he does confirm John’s thought with another nod. “That’s alright, really.” John adds when Sherlock looks almost worried that he is somehow letting John down. “Ok, question two, are you still alright with me touching and kissing you on occasion?”

Sherlock nods quickly. “Yes, I will let you know when I am uncomfortable.”

“Good.” John squeezes his shoulders. “Question three, are you ready to go back in there and find a way to catch Moran?”

A dark edge tints Sherlock’s eyes.

“Absolutely.”

John lets his hands fall. “Mycroft said he has a plan doesn’t he?”

Sherlock tenses.

“Yes.” Sherlock bites out.

John raises an eyebrow.

“And you don’t like it?” John has been wondering what it could be.

“That is a profound understatement.” Sherlock mutters.

“Whatever it takes, alright?” John replies, reaching out to grab his hand. Sherlock doesn’t respond. He looks at John, fear lingering behind his eyes, but John is pleased to see a newfound joy there as well. “We’ll be alright, we will.” John says with as much of a commanding tone as he can muster.

Sherlock looks doubtful, regardless he does nod.

With a final squeeze to his hand, Sherlock lets go of John and enters the living room. John breathes deeply and follows.

_Whatever it takes._


	19. Even when I lose I'm winning

Chapter 18

 

Johns eyes blink sluggishly as he becomes painfully aware of the pounding ache in his head, originating from somewhere above his right temple.

 _Fuck._ Overall, John can deal with pain quite well, he’s had years of experience living with pain both phantom and real, but damn it all that insane woman can really punch. His jaw throbs from the blow, and his head is pounding with blood from the subsequent fall the blow caused and that had knocked John out cold.

Careful not to move too much or give any physical indication of his awakening, John keeps his eyes closed and carefully examines his surroundings by smell, touch and hearing, it is silent –no breathing, and no echo when John takes a risk and taps a foot against a floor that appears to be cement, so the room isn’t large –and the smell is damp, though not especially moldy, John’s hands are tied tightly behind his back, very well John notes with a tug, and he’s lying down on his side; wings bent awkwardly, thankfully not broken, behind him.

He’s still wearing his clothes, for that his is grateful, and his feet are tied together also. John slowly opens his eyes and looks around. It is pitch black. The only light is coming from a sliver of space underneath a door and it barely illuminates anything helpful.

John groans and rolls over onto his front.

He thinks of Sherlock, and John hopes this whole thing isn’t an enormous mistake.

 

_“_ _Sherlock, much like you I despise repeating myself. This_ **_is_ ** _the only way, that won_ _’_ _t change no matter how much you protest. How many more hours must we waste here pandering to your fear? Trying to come up with other plans that either have a significantly less chance of working or require too much time to prepare and so will inevitably end up being useless anyway, it is pointless little brother._ _”_

_Mycroft sat primly in the chair opposite Greg, who watched an irate Sherlock pace angrily back and forth in the living room, John stood beside the burning fire and watched Sherlock with worried yet determined eyes._

_“_ _I refuse to accept that this_ **_is_ ** _the only way! I can_ _’_ _t-_ _”_ _Sherlock growled out, pulling and yanking his hair every which way._

_“_ _Your refusal doesn_ _’_ _t make it any less true._ _”_ _Mycroft responded, sounding impatient._

_“_ _Shut up Mycroft._ _”_

_Everyone turned to look at John_ _’_ _s sudden and fierce proclamation._

_John ignored them all, except for Sherlock. The detective watched as John, strode confidently towards Sherlock; standing on the far side of the room._

_John planted himself in front of the taller man. Sherlock gave John a pleading look. Those opalescent eyes flickered all over John, his expression turned narrowed and dark before John could even speak._

_“_ _I will not let you do this John. It is far too risky._ _”_ _Sherlock put so much power in those words that if John had been any other man he might_ _’_ _ve been swayed._

_John quirked an eyebrow._ _“_ _Wow, I never thought I_ _’_ _d hear those words come out of your mouth."_

_“_ _John-_ _”_

_The shorter man sighed and rubbed a tired hand down his face._

_“_ _No, you listen here Sherlock. Yeah, it is risky; we both know that, we also both know that this is our best chance._ _”_ _John spoke as diplomatically as he could, even though past experience taught him that trying to reason with distressed emotion rarely worked out so well. John never thought he would use those words in connection with Sherlock._

_Truth be told, John was surprisingly fine with the plan, dangerous yes, but he could see_ _–_ _especially considering what had happened already_ _–_ _why Sherlock was so resistant to it. If he had been in Sherlock_ _’_ _s place, John is sure he would_ _’_ _ve resisted too._

_“_ _I_ _’_ _m doing this, you cannot control my decision Sherlock so don_ _’_ _t even try. This needs to be over, and I will do whatever it takes to stop her._ _”_

_Sherlock_ _’_ _s face twisted unpleasantly and his wings fluffed up._

_“_ _The variables are too-_ _”_ _Sherlock tried again, nose to nose with John, eyes unrelenting._

_“_ _High, I know._ _”_ _John finished for him._ _“_ _Do you trust me?_ _”_ _John asked, he then reached up and planted his hands on Sherlock_ _’_ _s arms._

_Sherlock didn_ _’_ _t hesitate._

_“_ _Of course._ _”_

_“_ _Then trust me when I say I wouldn_ _’_ _t do this if I didn_ _’_ _t think it could work, the risk is worth it, on an intellectual level I know you agree with me. Believe in me Sherlock, I know I can do this._ _”_ _John fixed unblinking eyes on Sherlock._

_Sherlock gritted his teeth._

_“_ _I do believe in you John, you really are an idiot if you think this has anything to do with that. The reality is no potential gain is worth your life!_ _”_ _Sherlock_ _’_ _s voice rose on that last word and he roughly pushed John_ _’_ _s hands off his shoulders._

_John was incredulous._

_“_ _The_ **_reality_ ** _is that I may bloody well die anyway if we don_ _’_ _t do anything!_ _”_ _John raised his voice right back._ _“_ _I am not telling you anything you don_ _’_ _t already know. You can_ _’_ _t always protect me Sherlock, stop trying to. You_ _’_ _re still trying to make up for something that wasn_ _’_ _t even your fault. Moriarty, Moran, hell, even Mycroft, none of it was your fault! Now stop being an idiot and let_ _’_ _s finish this._ _”_

_John didn_ _’_ _t mean to sound so angry; he did understand where Sherlock is coming from. Maybe it was seeing Sherlock act of out his emotional side rather than his logical, rational side that had John on edge. It is a side to Sherlock John just wasn_ _’_ _t used to seeing just yet. Or maybe John was afraid too, not of his own life necessarily (though he has no wish to die) but that if something did happen what would happen to Sherlock?_

_Sherlock flinched in response to Johns words, a brief flare of fear and anger echoed through their bond before Sherlock abruptly locked it away again, and turned to face away from John._

_John sighed. He should remember that Sherlock is particularly sensitive right now, what with embracing of his emotions, reliving the death of his grandmother, the gravity and weight of his mistakes. Sherlock is still so new to the world of emotions after having cut himself off from them for so long. John saw that, he did, it was akin to seeing a baby take its first steps in a lot of ways._

_“_ _I_ _’_ _m sorry._ _”_ _John said. Sherlock didn_ _’_ _t move._ _“_ _Look, pretend just for a second that it wasn_ _’_ _t me doing this, what would you do?_ _”_

_Sherlock shifted uncomfortably._ _“_ _I would go ahead with the plan._ _”_

_John nodded, unsurprised._

_“_ _Exactly, and why?_ _”_ _John continued._

_“_ _Because it has the highest chance of succeeding, the current circumstances are perfect at present for Sophia Moran_ _’_ _s capture, despite her intelligence, her emotional instability will compromise her judgement and she will be too eager to focus her revenge on you that she will be blind to any potential Trojan horse manoeuvres. And even if she does suspect anything, she will take the risk anyway because of her intense desire for satisfaction. The likelihood of her killing her intended captive is minimal at best; she will want to prolong the experience as much as possible._ _”_ _Sherlock recited with a detached tone, though the quivering undertone of his voice betrayed his true anxieties._

_John frowned and moved to stand in front of Sherlock. John wrapped his arms around his love tightly, desperately hoping that he wouldn_ _’_ _t have his newfound happiness extinguished before it barely had time to flourish._

_Sherlock kept his arms and wings rigid by his sides. John wasn_ _’_ _t deterred, he closed his eyes and turned his head into Sherlock_ _’_ _s neck, he gave into another urge and breathed in Sherlock_ _’_ _s scent; exhaling in relief at the comfort it brings._

_“_ _It_ _’_ _s ok to be afraid._ _”_ _John whispered._

_“_ _I can_ _’_ _t lose you, John._ _”_ _Sherlock uttered quietly._

_John_ _’_ _s heart ached, his wings coming around to embrace Sherlock as well. Who would_ _’_ _ve thought that Sherlock Holmes, a supposed cold-hearted man would one day love this deeply?_

_“_ _I wish I could say you wouldn_ _’_ _t._ _”_ _John finally responded._ _“_ _I do believe that we_ _’_ _ve been through far too much for it to be ended by some inexperienced woman with a sniper rifle._ _”_ _John added with a small, but sad, smile._

_John felt a soft weight press into the top of his head._

_“_ _The world is hardly a fair construct John._ _”_

_“_ _You think I don_ _’_ _t know that? I do, if it were you never would_ _’_ _ve had to leave in the first place and I wouldn_ _’_ _t have spent two fucking years knowing what it was like to live without you._ _”_ _John squeezed Sherlock tighter._

_Sherlock tensed briefly before exhaling a hollow, aching sound._

_“_ _I_ _’_ _m so sorry John, please don_ _’_ _t make me know what that_ _’_ _s like..._ _”_ _John felt Sherlock_ _’_ _s hands come up and rest lightly on his hips._

_John felt himself growing more afraid, but he didn_ _’_ _t know if that was his own fear or Sherlock_ _’_ _s. It seemed that whenever emotions grew intense, good or bad, if the two of them were close they seemed to meld together._

_He tamped that fear down and summoned up all the determination he had. There was no way John was going to let this go._

_“_ _I will do whatever it takes to stay alive, that I can promise you. I_ _’_ _ve got to come home to my insane man don_ _’_ _t I?_ _”_ _John tried to inject a teasing tone into the heavy atmosphere._

_There was silence for a moment._

_“_ _Is that what I am?_ _”_ _Sherlock murmured._

_“_ _Insane? You do remember the decomposing foot in the tub right?_ _”_

_Sherlock poked John in retaliation for the comment. John just snickered._

_“_ _No, that I_ _’_ _m...that I_ _’_ _m yours._ _”_

_His voice was so quiet, and John felt his heart break at the sound. He quickly pulled away at Sherlock_ _’_ _s words to look the man in the eye._

_“_ _Absolutely, how can you think otherwise?_ _”_ _John questioned._

_Sherlock frowned, looked away for a moment and shrugged._

_“_ _No harm in reaffirming truth._ _”_

_John smiled a little._

_“_ _I_ _’_ _m yours, and you_ _’_ _re mine, you silly man._ _”_ _John leaned upwards and kissed Sherlock on the nose._

_When he pulled away Sherlock_ _’_ _s face had morphed into that adorable annoyance John was hoping to find._

_“_ _I hate you._ _”_

_John laughed and gave Sherlock a quick hug before backing away again._

_“_ _No you don_ _’_ _t._ _”_ _John quipped._

_Sherlock sighed._

_“_ _True._ _”_

_After that it didn_ _’_ _t take long for John to convince Sherlock, if not to be ok with the plan, than at least to adhere to it. At that point everything was put into motion, Mycroft organized his people while Greg, John and Sherlock went over the finer points of what they were about to do._

_A few hours went by before Mycroft handed a small, pill shaped device into John_ _’_ _s hand_ _–_ _which he promptly swallowed_ _–_ _and Sherlock was hugging John tightly, imploring him to stay alive and not to do anything unnecessarily stupid, barring any unforeseen obstacles, they wouldn_ _’_ _t be long behind him._

_John tried to kiss him, Sherlock turned his head away and called it motivation for John to return alive._

_John had every intention of doing so._

 

When they decided that the simplest way to bring attention to John was for him to take Greg’s car and go to the pub, putting on a show of being angry – Sophia Moran could draw her own conclusions – to make his departure from safety plausible, John didn’t think he would get knocked over the head before even going inside. She must’ve really been waiting him for him to show himself like Sherlock and Mycroft suspected.

He barely got a chance to see anything beyond the fact that it was Sophia who punched him, she must’ve had help though – John is no feather – possibly that man whose brother he stitched up.

It doesn’t feel like he’s been drugged, thank god (though the double layered duct tape across his mouth isn’t all that pleasant), his senses are becoming more alert by the second. Hopefully Sherlock, Greg and Mycroft too, will get to wherever he is soon. He’s hardly going to sit on his arse and do nothing though.

John moves into an awkward arched position with his head pushing against the floor, pretty soon he has himself up and kneeling. The knotted rope around his wrists is very poor quality, as such the degraded slivers of material are biting into his skin whenever he tries to move, same with his feet. It is very well tied and it could take John quite some time to slip out of it, he’s been in worse positions though and he is confident that he can get himself out of this particular bind. That isn’t the problem; does he even have the time? And why hasn’t Moran tied him up the way she did her other victims? Something tells John it is because she doesn’t plan on keeping him alive as long as the others.

After some practiced maneuvering, John is able to slip his bound wrists past his feet so that they are now in front of him. John awkwardly pulls himself across the floor using his bound wrists to inspect the area he’s being kept in. As far as he can tell, it’s empty and barely larger than closet. Other than that, besides a faint odor that John really hopes _isn_ _’_ _t_ rat urine, there’s nothing.

If necessary, John can dislocate his thumb and slip his bindings that much quicker, he’ll reserve that as a last resort should something go wrong.

Just as John is pulling himself towards the door, he hears footsteps –more than one set –heading in his direction from the other side. John quickly moves back to his original position, feigning sleep.

He keeps only the barest sliver of his eye open when he hears the sound of a key turning a lock, and then the door opening.

“Is he awake?” A voice John recognizes as Sophia echoes from the other side of the door.

Heavier footsteps make their way towards John. John is expecting the kick when it comes and refrains himself from expressing any pain, but it is easy to tell that he is awake. With that in mind, John opens his eyes and fixes a glare on the man standing above him. He can’t see Sophia Moran from this position.

“Yep, want me to move him?” That is definitely the man whose brother John shot and subsequently treated.

“Of course, we don’t have much time, unfortunately. I want to get this done, better quick than not at all.” Moran quips with a tone that has even John feeling chilled, much like with Moriarty. And isn’t that a comforting thought.

She steps into John’s field of vision; she’s wearing the same clothes the last time he saw her, though they are significantly more ruffled, even ripped in some places, there is faint trembling to her posture, a quiver in her lips, though it is obvious she is trying desperately to seem in control. Her eyes show only one thing; she has nothing left to lose. John stares at her unblinkingly. She appears to consider something for a moment, before tilting a gesture in John’s direction. “Take off the tape. I want to talk to him.” Her voice comes out quiet, danger lurking in her words much the way Sherlock speaks when he’s purposefully controlling his anger.

John’s brow rises, and even the man in front of him looks surprised. He doesn’t question her order and just gives her a stiff nod. He bends down and rips the tape off. It stings, John is careful to not show it.

John doesn’t have time to form the many words he would like to say to this insane woman before the hulking man is gripping him underneath his arms and lifting him up to stand awkwardly on his still bound feet; John winces internally when a fierce hand tightens painfully on his injured shoulder to keep him from falling; the shooting pain reverberates throughout his wings, causing a fresh wave of deep bruising pain to echo through his body.

Sophia Moran advances on John, her eyes narrowed and icy, and stops barely a foot away. John holds himself as straight as he can, not giving anything away as he meets her steadfast gaze; portraying not fear, but determination. Determination to exude nothing but calmness, avoiding seeming confident because if he seems like he [i] _knows[/i]_ that help is indeed on the way _right now_ , that could put both himself and Sherlock in danger. He can’t take the risk.

He does wonder something though, _why is she staring at me?_ From her words and tone of voice, it seems that on some level she realizes she doesn’t have much time (little does she know exactly how true that is), whether that’s because she’s guessed that Sherlock will be tracking John in some way (Even though John is sure she would’ve had him searched after he was unconscious. John doubts it’s crossed her mind that he _swallowed_ a small tracking device, courtesy of MI6, rather ingenious actually) or she herself is growing impatient enough to want to rush, John can’t quite make up his mind, regardless it would be idiotic of John to not be at least somewhat unsettled by her gaze. Maybe it’s the fact that John’s senses are prickling with an even stronger sense of unease compared to meeting her before, no matter that Sherlock and Mycroft should be arriving soon. She’s becoming desperate, barely holding onto what little control she has left, unhinged. It unsettles John even more so that she is holding it in, over the course of his experiences with Sherlock, in a lot of ways he finds more obviously insane people easier to deal with. Those who hide it...their actions are not always predictable.

John has seen and encountered plenty of insanity; from the Sherlock-grade insanity that John has come to feel a special sort of fondness for, to the genuinely terrifying, like Moriarty.

On some level, John can understand her pain. Believing Sherlock to be dead was a living hell, and he didn’t even know for sure then that they were deep soul mates. The very thought of losing him now...John feels ill even thinking about it.

Does all that excuse what she’s done? Absolutely not. Does it explain why she’s done it? Yes, in a twisted way. Sherlock certainly isn’t wrong when he insists that love is a much more vicious motivator.

Sophia Moran is the first to break their stare-off with a dark glance towards his wings. John watches as she closes her eyes briefly and takes a deep breath, her hands clench tightly at her sides. When she re-opens them she gives John a brief look that speaks volumes about her deep-seated rage fueled by all consuming pain, a promise of the chasm of a wound she intends to inflict on Sherlock by ending John’s life.

She jerks her head and walks away from John. Almost immediately John finds himself being uncomfortably lead/dragged by the surprisingly strong henchmen.

“Stay up!” The man growls out when John stumbles a bit in his grip.

John gives the man a withering glare.

“I can’t exactly walk now can I?” John responds with no small amount of derision. _Idiot._ That particular inner thought sounds suspiciously like Sherlock.

He stops moving, his hold on John’s shoulder tightening. He flicks his eyes to John’s feet and to Sophia Moran. She has stopped at a door on the other side of the room –what John now notices is the basement of what appears to be a house, empty, with the smell of rotting moisture –looking agitated at the delay.

“Oh for god’s sake, you’re worse than your brother, just untie his fucking feet and get him in here.” Moran pulls out a key and unlocks the door in front of her. She shoves it open and tosses the key to the man holding onto John. There is a light on within the room, John can’t see much from this angle but he does notice the sniper rifle leaning casually against the wall. “Useless.” She adds with a glare in the man’s reaction.

If the man is at all put off by her insult, he doesn’t show it. However at the mention of his brother the man growls a low undercurrent, so low John is sure Moran can’t have heard it.

The man’s jaw tightens and John resists the urge to attempt escape when he bends down and with a very sharp looking pocket knife, reaches out and in one swift movement cuts through the leather binding his feet.

It is as the man bends down that John notices a small mark on the back of his neck, John remembers then that when he was treating this man’s brother, at one point John noticed the uninjured man reach out and touch a finger to a soul mark on his brother’s chest. And the brother, flickering in and out of consciousness, flicked his eyes towards his brother’s neck. At the time, John wasn’t paying attention to those particular details, but remembering them now...John gets an idea.

“How is your brother? The stitching held alright?” John whispers when the man straightens out of his crouch, making sure to sound as genuine as possible. “Do you think she would’ve helped him at all, or even cared if he died, if I hadn’t been there?” John is the one to have shot him in the first place, but he also probably saved the man’s life.

For some reason they seem loyal to her, maybe they knew her father or something, but the fact that his man clearly cares more about his brother’s well-being than Moran’s motives and actions, could come in handy during the showdown that is likely to happen. Maybe John can get him to leave her exposed; he doesn’t appear to be stupid, but not all that smart either. John’s definition of smart changed ever since meeting Sherlock; everyone seems a bit on the dull side compared to him. Though John would hardly say so out loud, the man’s ego is large enough. Even though he can’t deny the danger he’s currently in, John does feel a strumming of love at the thought of Sherlock.

More than anything John hopes Sherlock isn’t somehow hurt as a result of all this chaos.

The man’s jaw clenches, he doesn’t answer John, but John doesn’t miss the fact that he avoids John’s eyes when he once against grasps John’s shoulders and pushes him in the direction of the door and a very irate looking Sophia Moran.

John silently hopes that his words are doing what he intended them to do, create doubt and anger towards the deceptively ordinary looking woman.

No more words are spoken and John is promptly shoved into the room and the door is locked behind him.

Only Sophia Moran followed him in.

_Here we go. Where are you Sherlock?_

John, with his hands still bound, keeps his eyes fixed on her; trying to survey what he can of the room without letting her out of his sight. It is surprisingly large, a single lamp hangs from the ceiling and it is empty except for two chairs. There are signs that this was once a storage room of some sort. There are no signs of any restraints as far as John can tell, except for the indirect one shown by the presence of the gun.

She may not be professionally trained in using a sniper rifle, it is still a deadly weapon regardless and unless he gets the opportunity or has no choice, he won’t risk charging at her, bound hands or no.

Well, she isn’t just going to shoot him outright at any rate, she did say she wants to talk to him...what purpose that can possibly serve, John has no idea.

To John’s surprise, she doesn’t immediately go into the stereotypical bad guy monologue that he half expected; instead she holds the gun firmly with her bandaged hand (from when John clipped her) and stays silent. She walks around him, keeping a fair distance, her eyes unwavering as she makes her way over to the chair facing the door. She sits down and casually rests the rifle across her lap.

Her expression is deadened and unreadable, eyes a paradox of coldness and sizzling pain barely contained behind those bright irises.

John frowns. He slowly sits down in the chair opposite her, a bit confused by her casual attitude. It is surprisingly easy to hide the pain in his shoulder and wings, his energy completely devoted to focusing on the woman in front of him, and keeping an ear out for signs that Sherlock is arriving. Once he gets close enough, John is sure they’ll be able to communicate telepathically, so until that happens John intends to send out feelers so to speak every now and then.

_Sherlock?_

“The funny thing is I didn’t even like my father.”

John hides his confusion in response to the out of the blue words Sophia Moran just spoke. He keeps silent for the time being and pays attention, curious despite himself of where she intends on going with this.

Her eyes flicker away from John and to a point somewhere on the floor, though her tense grip on the rifle doesn’t cease.

“People have this funny idea that being soul mates, especially winged ones, means instant love. Absurd considering people who are _enemies_ can be soul mates, though many would like to pretend otherwise. So much easier isn’t it? I mean, how can two people who supposedly hate each other be soul mates?” Sophia scoffs an empty, bitter sound. “People would far rather romanticize something than consider the possibility that being soul connected isn’t so black and white, that it isn’t in fact some glorious happy thing. The reality is far simpler; it is nothing but fucking, painful tragedy. I hated being connected with my father, a man I barely saw, and yet...he was my entire world, I hated and loved him at the same time. I hated that when he died, my soul wanted to die but my mind and body did not. So fucking weak. Killing those people, killing you and knowing what it’ll do to _him_ -” Sophia spits and John feels anger coil tightly within his body. “-it is the only way to level the playing field, give me a fresh start. I have no choice. See what I mean by tragedy?”

John is listening carefully, wondering why she is suddenly spilling herself out like this, half of what she’s saying is rubbish spewing from her broken soul, and yet she isn’t wrong. John and Sherlock have come across nearly all varieties of soul mates in their work, including ones between people who were enemies. It isn’t about hate though, being soul mates at its core is about pure _understanding,_ being connected to someone because one way or another, you need to be in order for your life to proceed the way it’s meant to, you’re meant to learn and grow, and that can happen with people you love as well as people you dislike. Something that people don’t always realize is that the soul doesn’t differentiate between hatred and love; it doesn’t differentiate between anything, because soul magic comes out from a place of... _everything_.

Truthfully, John stopped trying to understand the mechanics of soul connection and soul magic a long time ago and just accepted that it is the way it is, how people who choose to major in Soulology don’t lose their bloody minds is a mystery to him. In the end, when people connect their connection is unique unto themselves and will go in whatever way they are meant to, giving them the chance to grow and be the fullest version of themselves. Chance being the operative word, even a soul connection doesn’t guarantee anything, other than the fact that you are irrevocably altered by another person. And, if you are lucky, you’ll have more friendship and love soul mates than not.

John considers himself lucky to have a deep soul connection with someone as wonderfully, beautifully maddening as Sherlock Holmes, and to know now –after all this time –that Sherlock feels for him the way John feels for the detective...John wouldn’t trade what they have, whatever happens with them, for anything. Even if it means getting killed by a psychopathic murderer broken by loss and pain, obviously one of the unlucky people to have a deep soul mate with someone they shared no great love with yet felt so deeply connected to all the same.

John almost feels sorry for her – _almost._

Still, John is confused... “Why are you telling me this? You want me to agree with you? Because I _really_ don’t see that happening.” John says with an insincere smile.

Images of Jeffery Coffer’s body, Eliza Kristoffs and the sight of Bill Wiggins being gunned down are ones John is currently haunted by. Rage pools in his stomach as he continues to look at the woman sitting across from him.

_Sherlock?_

Still nothing. Not even the echoing sound of his heartbeat. _Where is he? God, I hope nothing_ _’_ _s wrong._ No, no there isn’t. They’re fine, Sherlock’s got Greg, Mycroft and bloody MI6 backing him up.

_Keep calm John._

John just has to distract this woman and stay alive until they get here. If he does end up dying, John doesn’t doubt Sherlock will put his genius mind to use and reanimate him just to scream in his face for getting himself killed in the first place _._

_Yeah, I_ _’_ _m in love with a madman._

Sophia Moran snorts.

“Of course not, I’m just...savouring, what little time I have. I don’t doubt you’ll be found oh, within the next few hours. Holmes is awfully...attached to you.” She sneers a smile something deadly. “Once he discovers I’ve managed to kidnap you, if anyone will be able to figure out where we are, it’ll be him, and his meddling brother.”

She really has no idea her amount of time is even more limited than she knows. John thinks of the device ensconced in his stomach and inwardly thanks Mycroft, again. John half-suspected that Sophia Moran would be at least more suspicious when he assumes she discovered no tracking devices of any kind on his body, but if the increasingly crazed look in her eyes (chillingly at odds with the casual pose of her body) indicates anything, it is that she is very close to going completely mad.

John’s face gives nothing away, and he meets Sophia Moran’s eyes – now watching him again – with the unwavering steadiness.

“You’re not afraid.” Sophia states, a fact.

John raises an eyebrow.

“What gave me away?”

She laughs bitterly.

“Oh you misunderstand, I realise you’re not afraid, no, _you_ are not merely afraid, you are _terrified_.” She sneers and leans forward, hands clenching white-knuckled around the rifle. “You’ve just connected with a man you’ve obviously loved for years-” _Why is it that the insane ones are so bloody perceptive?_ “-and now you’re going to lose him, and your future, that is why you are terrified, and knowing the misplaced love those...things-” She gestures towards Johns vibrantly coloured wings. “-have amplified, you are terrified what losing you will do to Sherlock. Funny, how one man’s terror is another woman’s delight. Almost makes this entire experience better. I’m sure it will be even more satisfying for me.”

John feels himself tense, his hands clench in his lap and his eyes burn with anger towards this woman.

He pointedly doesn’t respond, but oh how he wants to, he won’t rise to her bait though. Instead, in an effort to keep her talking, he diverts the conversation entirely.

“How’d you get thing one and thing two out there to work for you?” John asks; tone purposefully calm and curious.

Moran looks momentarily irritated at the question, but the look disappears very quickly and she changes the position of the rifle to point directly at Johns shoulder –

 _Sand...blood...blood...dirt, white hot...pain..._ John swallows the memories of Afghanistan, urging the flashback of pain when he was shot by a sniper to _please oh god please_ not come to him now. If the faint twitch of a smirk is any indication, Sophia Moran obviously did that on purpose.

John is able to steel himself –though barely, he admits with frustration –and ignores the long, glaring gun pointing in his direction.

“Never underestimate loyalty. Jack out there knew my father, before my father attached himself to _Moriarty_. And his brother would follow him anywhere, like an annoying slightly dumber dog.”

John expected an answer of some sort, what he didn’t expect was the obvious distaste in her voice when she spoke of Moriarty. That’s a surprise.

John leaps on that tidbit.

“Not a Moriarty fan I take it?”

Sophia Moran scoffs, the movement jiggling the rifle slightly.

“It seems we have more than just Sherlock Holmes in common.” Is all she says.

John still isn’t precisely sure what she’s hoping to gain by talking to him like this, but he’s not about to complain when she seems perfectly – unwittingly – biding him time. Speaking of which... _Sherlock?_

John feels a faint and familiar tingling along the borders of his senses, slowly but surely growing stronger. He’s close, not close enough, but close none-the-less.

John tries not to express the overwhelming feeling of _relief_ he feels at that knowledge, John didn’t realize until he was this far away from Sherlock how it would feel to not have him within his immediate sphere...it felt, empty; like being away from home.

How John even considered, even if only for a millisecond, not seeing Sherlock again...John will have to agree with Sherlock’s assessment that though he is significantly more intelligent than the average person, he is still essentially an idiot.

Sophia Moran’s eyes suddenly narrow, suspicion clouding her features.

_Shit._

John’s heart rate picks up a notch, he carefully doesn’t move.

Moran slowly stands up, keeping the barrel of the gun trained on John as she moves to stand behind the chair she had been sitting on.

She doesn’t say if John gave her any indication that he has now become aware of Sherlock, she doesn’t say anything. Her eyes keep a narrowed and dangerous stare, unblinking on John, as she slowly puts down the gun (resting it against the chair) and takes off... _her shirt? What the hell?_

John can barely blink in shock before she has the pale garment off, John notes with relief that she is at least wearing a bra (further back in his mind his body also seems to let him know how unappealing the female form is to him right now, whether that’s because no one can possibly hold a candle to Sherlock in terms of beauty or the fact that the woman currently stripping is an unstable murderer...probably both). That relief is quickly quashed when she reaches behind herself and unclasps her bra.

John wants to look away; Moran shakes her head and keeps her unrelenting and angry gaze on John. Feeling even more wary and uncomfortable now, John probes his bond with Sherlock once more.

_Sherlock?_

...

_John!_

Oh thank god! He can’t yet feel his heart beat alongside his own, but knowing that he can at least communicate with Sherlock eases John significantly.

John wants to say more, but like Sherlock said before in the clearing, he can’t have his attention spliced between talking with Sherlock and paying attention to Moran.

He can feel Sherlock’s almost inhuman determination cascading through the bond mingled with worry and anxiety so intense John has to fight to keep from trembling.

All this has happened within the space of a few seconds.

Sophia is still watching John and his carefully schooled expression closely. John has one last thought of _‘_ _I could really, really do without seeing her breasts_ _’_ before Sophia is turning around, John quickly takes advantage of the brief lapse in her focus.

_Sherlock, I am in the basement of a house behind an additional door with Moran, the man from the clearing is standing guard outside it, if there are more I don_ _’_ _t know. I am ok at the moment. Don_ _’_ _t do anything stupid._

John doesn’t get a response, but he can feel sparks of relief that are not his own and there is an additional answering emotion that feels almost scolding as if Sherlock is reiterating Johns don’t do anything stupid comment.

Her eyes are trained on John over her left shoulder when she completes her turn, exposing her back to him.

 _Why_ – any question John had of why she would strip and expose herself to John evaporates when he sees the state of her back.

All of John’s breath leaves with a hoarse sound; nausea builds and his wings begin to ache as though beaten repeatedly.

_Oh...god._

John can feel that Sherlock is panicking over John’s sudden distress, he wants to calm him down but he just can’t. Suddenly, why Moran took off her shirt and bra makes a twisted sort of sense.

Sophia smirks at John’s obvious distress at what he sees, though pain even she can’t control shines through her eyes.

John has only seen this sight a hand full of times, but it doesn’t get any easier. Where once there were wings, there are now two, identical scars fanning out from where her wing joints once were; wide, black and protruding slightly from the surface of her skin, bright red marks spread out like roots of a mangled, dying tree all over the surface of her back. The center of the scars is round, concave and oozing at the edges, as though someone has roughly, painfully gouged huge chunks of skin out of her.

Being a soldier, a doctor and a companion to Sherlock Holmes, John has seen these scars before, but there are certain things you never quite get used to.

These are the markings of a person who has recently lost their deep soul mate. They will remain grotesque and painful for at least a year before slowly healing into regular, white scars.

“This is what your _dear_ Sherlock has to look forward to.” Sophia finally speaks, her tone is scathing.

The anger coursing through him in response to her words is stronger than the nausea he feels looking at the infected looking scars.

He is _furious_. Just _imagining_ Sherlock in agony like this has John’s heart clenching painfully.

It was probably her intention to set him off, but John is seeing red and doesn’t care. He pushes himself off the chair, wings spreading and sharpening despite their injured state.

Moran was clearly expecting that as she has quickly turned around (bra hanging loosely, though still covering her small bosom) and grabbed the gun, quickly pointing it in John’s direction. John stops, but continues to seethe through his teeth.

John curses his lapse of control.

“You are fucking insane!” John yells.

It is faint, but John is starting to feel and hear Sherlock’s heartbeat again...racing even faster than his own, in time with John’s increasingly intense emotions.

Sophia Moran observes him with manic glee, her posture still one of cool detachment.

A singular eyebrow rises. “I prefer intense and focused. Now, _sit down_.” She roughly prods John in the chest with the rifle.

John doesn’t move.

“Or what? You’re going to kill me anyway no matter what.” John shrugs, his voice has taken on a deep and threatening tone that in the past made many a suspect quiver in fear.

Sophia isn’t even ruffled.

“Or, I give you my word I will give Sherlock Holmes scars far worse than the ones I bear.”

John sucks in a distressed breath. Logically, he knows that Sherlock and Mycroft are on their way and it is unlikely she is going to get away let alone her hands on Sherlock, but even the slightest possibility of her getting to Sherlock has John capitulating quickly.

His jaw is tense, his eyes narrowed dangerously at the half-naked woman, but he does sit back down.

Sophia gives a satisfied nod. She doesn’t retake her seat, nor does she redress herself; the gun remains pointed at John. She may be holding the gun incorrectly, but at this range a flying monkey driving a lorry could make a kill shot.

John considers for a moment... _oh, what the hell._ “I’m curious, how does the daughter of an expert sniper not know how to hold a sniper rifle?” John finds himself asking, proud when his voice comes out steady despite the pounding of his heart and emotions.

_John, I_ _’_ _m almost there. If I don_ _’_ _t find you alive and breathing, I will never, ever forgive you._

John’s heart throbs. He doesn’t respond with words, but he does allow the love he feels for Sherlock to roam free and wild as the man himself. He feels, if possible (it’s not) an even stronger feeling of love in return.

John is thankful that during the brief and one-sided exchange Sophia had been glancing down at her grip on the gun, looking a bit irritated at John’s words but not surprised by them.

“Did I mention that one of the reasons I hated my father was because I rarely saw him? Oh he kept be updated enough on his whereabouts, but face to face? His bond with me wasn’t as important as his work; I’ve only seen him a handful of times during my life and not once during medical school. My mother died giving birth to me, and I was raised mainly by nannies and other people. He certainly never taught me how to properly handle a gun, in fact he refused. Eventually, when I had the opportunity to learn from buddies of his, I didn’t want to. Simple as that. I’ve managed well enough so far.” Sophia shrugs, but John can tell she is far more affected by her own words than she is making herself appear. He feels an unpleasant shiver at the coldness of her last sentence.

Knowing his own connection with Sherlock, John can’t imagine someone purposefully keeping away from someone they share a deep soul bond with. Right now, it doesn’t feel physically possible to him. However, John can’t help but wonder if maybe the reason Sebastian Moran did what he did, was because he was trying to protect his daughter, in more ways than one.

John fixes a considering eye on Sophia Moran, leaning back in his chair.

Her eyes narrow again and she cocks the gun at him.

 _“_ _What?_ _”_ She spits.

Sherlock’s heartbeat is getting stronger. _He_ _’_ _s almost here._

John does feel a little satisfied at getting under Moran’s skin by not even saying anything, but the feeling is extinguished by the turmoil of everything else, and the knowledge that a child was left basically to fend for themselves and then lost the one person they loved and hated most in the world. No wonder she eventually went off the deep-end, John can feel sympathy for her and still want to see her brought to justice, if not killed for the horrors she’s done. Not to mention threatening the one person John would –has –killed for.

He knows this will possibly set her off, but John says it anyway.

“It sounds to me like he loved you; he tried to protect you the only way he knew how.”

Sophia Moran’s face twists in fury and in the blink of an eye she rushes at John and pushes the long barrel of the gun, painfully, into to his aching shoulder, very _very_ hard.

John can’t stop the scream of pain.

 _John!_ Sherlock’s voice yells inside his head, fear coming from the detective eclipses nearly everything else.

“He never really loved me! Love is a weakness! He could never afford weakness, and protect me? _Protect me?!_ If he wanted to ‘protect’me, he wouldn’t have left me, over, and _over_ again. He would have taken me with him every time I _begged!_ So don’t you dare say he wanted to protect me!” Her face is twisted with anger and pain.

John is prepared for it when Sophia pushes even harder on his shoulder, he tenses his body and tries very hard not to scream this time, though he is humiliated to hear a faint whimper come from him.

Perhaps John is an idiot; it is the only explanation for why he continues. It could also be because the sheer strength of Sherlock’s heart beat indicates he is now inside wherever they are, heading in his direction. _They_ _’_ _re here._

“It sounds like Sherlock did you a favour.” John growls out.

His words do what he intended them to. Sophia yells out a nonsensical sound in fury and raises the gun, from the angle presumably to hit him with it.

John rushes at her, pushing himself hard against her chest, causing her to fall onto the hard, cement floor. Her breath leaves her in a rush, eyes wide and surprised. John can’t prevent himself from falling with her, and his hands are still bound which is unfortunate.

He rolls to his left, onto Sophia Moran’s right arm and pushes down with all his might.

She yells out in pain and unwittingly releases the rifle. John kicks it away to the far side of the room. He intended to put himself back over her and possibly incapacitate her via suffocation, but John underestimated her recovery time.

Though her right arm now appears to be broken, she is able to leap up from the ground; eyes spitting fire at John as she makes to rush at him.

He quickly rights himself and with as much strength as he can muster he pushes himself to standing; making sure to block her path to the gun.

She stops abruptly, eyes flickering towards the gun, her hands twitch at her sides.

_“_ _You-_ _”_

_Thud!_ Her angry exclamation is interrupted by a single sound above their heads.

Silence follows.

Sophia Moran looks at the door, then up towards the ceiling and then back to John, her eyes calculating all the while. John tries to look as bemused as possible, but Sophia’s eyes narrow in suspicion...and then become alight with realization.

John curses inwardly. He tenses, ready to act, hoping that there aren’t any unexpected surprises upstairs that could put Sherlock and the others in danger.

The swirling eddy of anger building around Moran feels like a bomb ready to pop, John can feel it in the air, a domino effect ready to fall into a pattern of chaos.

The sound and feeling of Sherlock’s heart beat is like a reassuring beacon of light, always there no matter what happens.

John _will_ protect that light, his presence grows closer and closer. John wants – _needs_ to leave this room. He did warn Sherlock about the man standing guard, but he does have a gun and from what John saw there is only one entrance into the basement and it leaves whoever is coming down those stairs vulnerable.

“No...No! He shouldn’t be here yet, I had more time...” Sophia is muttering to herself.

John eyes the half-naked, crazed woman; her thin body rigid with tension, nearly hyperventilating, hands hold the sides of her head tightly.

It is at that moment that an even louder thud echoes from the other side of the door, along with the knowledge that he can _feel_ it is Sherlock. _He_ _’_ _s alright, thank god._

 _Focus John, we_ _’_ _re not out of the woods yet._ John reminds himself.

In the back of his mind, he does feel a bit of confusion at the lack of sound from the man – whom Sophia called Jack. Wouldn’t he have done something once he realized someone was entering the house and subsequently the basement?

John’s heart races as he hears the frantic sounds of someone hurrying to unlock the door.

John takes a deep breath.

“It’s over Sophia.” John exclaims, though he can’t help but feel that this was...too easy.

Sophia suddenly looks at John.

John’s words seem to have sparked that bomb. Her eyes grow dark and she smiles...a Machiavellian grin. John is reminded of every villain in every movie and show he has ever seen, right before they do something the hero wasn’t expecting.

Several things happen at once.

The door to the room flies open.

Sophia Moran reaches behind her and pulls out from her back trouser pocket what looks like...a Berloque pistol?

Sherlock looks manic and wild, coat billowing behind him, wings spread in defense, curly hair in disarray, he watches as Sophia raises the gun towards John.

John looks at Sherlock, that pale face stricken even paler with fear.

John feels a pulse of deep fear as he sees Sherlock rush at Sophia.

He ducks and rushes towards Sophia himself.

The impossibly small gun goes off as Sherlock reaches Sophia before John, twisting her away from the doctor and falling with her to the floor.

There are two very different screams of pain.

There was only one shot.

_Nononono!_

“SHERLOCK!”


	20. All of me

Chapter 19

 

_John collapses onto the ground, peripherally he notices other people enter the room, but they don_ _’_ _t matter. Nothing else does. All that matters was John heard a shot, heard and_ **_felt_ ** _Sherlock_ _’_ _s shout of pain, John cried out Sherlock_ _’_ _s name_ _–_ _much like he did when he saw Sherlock fall two years ago_ _–_ _and watched in horror as Sherlock went down._

_John tries to get to Sherlock (he lies face down on the ground unmoving, a blur of people drag a now unconscious Sophia away from him) but something is holding him back...arms._

_“_ _Let me go!_ _”_ _John screams._

_Whoever is holding him back moves away. They must have cut through his bonds, because suddenly John is crawling frantically towards the unmoving detective. Everything else in John_ _’_ _s world narrows to that point. He is barely aware of the chaos going on around him._

_Fear pulsates through John as he sees blood leaching from underneath his body, he can still feel Sherlock_ _’_ _s heartbeat so he knows he isn_ _’_ _t dead...but that doesn_ _’_ _t make seeing Sherlock sprawled awkwardly on the floor, blood oozing from him, staining the beautiful sheen of his wings, any easier._

_“_ _No, no you don_ _’_ _t get to do this to me. Not now._ _”_

_He reaches the detective in what John maintains to be too long a time and very carefully turns him over, ignoring his own physical pain all the while, it pales in comparison to seeing Sherlock unconscious and bleeding._

_Until that point, John assumed Sherlock was unconscious. Once John turns him over however, he sees Sherlock_ _’_ _s lashes flutter._

_The sound that erupts from John_ _’_ _s mouth can only be described as the sound one makes when sucker punched in the gut._

_John quickly pulls apart his coat and suit jacket, looking for the wound...the blood primarily pools around the right area of his chest, ripping apart his shirt reveals that Sherlock has been shot in his right shoulder at an awkward angle, the bullet went through just below his armpit and exited near his neck, too near, but it could_ _’_ _ve been a lot worse._

_It is a serious wound; the fact that it could_ _’_ _ve been a lot worse isn_ _’_ _t that much of a comfort to John. He finds it difficult to maintain a doctor_ _’_ _s calm detachment when Sherlock is the one laying below him, bloody with a gaping bullet wound, red staining the ivory pallor of his skin._

_Sherlock groans in pain._

_“_ _I-I think I may be b-bleeding John._ _”_ _His voice comes out sounding broken and hoarse from pain and blood loss._

_John laughs a hollow breath._

_“_ _Oh really? I didn_ _’_ _t notice, I thought you just spilled jam on yourself again._ _”_ _John is fighting to keep his voice steady. He is failing._

_It suddenly occurs to John that he doesn_ _’_ _t have any supplies and that Sherlock could die from this wound if he isn_ _’_ _t treated soon, but that thought is quickly suppressed when he sees Sherlock_ _’_ _s wings twitching on the cold cement floor and he remembers...they can heal each other_ _’_ _s wounds._

_John has never been so grateful for their soul bond._

_“_ _That was-that was one time._ _”_ _Sherlock speaks, his voice an echo, fighting to keep his eyes open and trained on John. John ignores the comment and quickly places shaking hands on the wound, the heat of flesh and blood soaks into his palms and John gathers all his energy_ _–_ _all this love for this infuriating man and focuses it on the wound._ _“_ _Are you-are you alright? She didn_ _’_ _t..._ _”_

_John keeps his hands tight against Sherlock and looks at him with disbelief._

_“_ _No, I_ _’_ _m fine. You on the other hand got yourself shot you bloody lunatic. I thought we promised each other not to do anything stupid? You_ _’_ _re going to be the death of me._ _”_ _John speaks with a combination of anger and fondness, anger because he hates seeing Sherlock throw himself into the line of fire for John and fondness...well, that goes without saying._

_“_ _Don_ _’_ _t be ludicrous; saving your life is not stupid._ _”_

_John exhales in relief when Sherlock sounds stronger as he speaks. John focuses his attention on that beautiful face. He sees colour returning to those slightly hollow cheeks and a bright sort of glee in those crystalline eyes; likely just as relieved that John is alright as John is that Sherlock is healing._

_“_ _I would_ _’_ _ve gotten out of the way. You didn_ _’_ _t have to sacrifice yourself for me._ _”_ _John insists._

_Sherlock rolls his eyes._

_“_ _Of course I did._ _”_

_The casual air with which Sherlock speaks, as though it were a fact as plain and obvious as the sky being blue, makes John ache, both with the overwhelming feeling that Sherlock Holmes really does care for him in a way he never would_ _’_ _ve thought possible two years ago and with a sense of frustration._

_“_ _You listen to me Sherlock Holmes._ _”_ _John leans down, nearly nose to nose with Sherlock. Those sharp eyes return Johns intense stare tenfold._ _“_ _I can take care of myself-_ _”_

_“_ _She was going to-_ _”_

_“_ _Shut up Sherlock._ _”_ _Sherlock promptly closes his jaw, though the anxious twitching of his wings indicates he really wants to keep speaking._ _“_ _The point is that seeing you hurt, it pains me a lot more than getting hurt myself. So, unless absolutely necessary, don_ _’_ _t you dare get yourself shot and treat it as though it_ _’_ _s no big deal! I may not...may not be able to get to you next-_ _”_

_John stops speaking when long cool fingers press firmly against his lips. The fact that John feels tears pooling in his eyes matters little compared to Sherlock_ _’_ _s delicate touch._

_“_ _John._ _”_ _The way Sherlock says that, so calm, so forceful, as though he knows precisely where John is coming from; neither of them can stand to lose the other._ _“_ _There is nothing I would not do to keep you safe, and there is nothing you can say to prevent me from fulfilling that promise whenever possible. I know you are fully capable of taking care of yourself, you are the most sufficient and capable human being I know and I would rather become a simpleton than undervalue you in any way. Emotions, as illogical as they are, prevent me from seeing sense however when it comes to you._ _”_

_John gasps lightly and his mouth twitches into a smile._

_"_ _And you_ _’_ _re ok with that?_ _”_ _John asks, moving one of his hands (noting with pounding love and relief that the wound is gone) to rest against Sherlock_ _’_ _s naked neck. He doesn_ _’_ _t doubt that Sherlock loves him, but what he isn_ _’_ _t sure of is whether Sherlock has truly accepted the volatile nature of his emotions and embraced them. He_ _’_ _s acknowledged them, but that_ _’_ _s different._

_Sherlock doesn_ _’_ _t say anything for a moment. The frown that creases his brow is almost sad, his breath has returned to a more normal pace and his eyes gaze at John softly._

_“_ _I am now._ _”_

_Their wings reach for each other and the edges of their feathers graze against the other, renewing love-filled energy zinging through their bond._

_Despite the circumstances, it is a perfect moment._

Sherlock’s eyes blink open. In the wake of new and incredible knowledge whirling around his brain, he feels breathless.

 _That was a dream...no, a memory._ Sharp, more vivid than any dream Sherlock has ever dreamt.

Sherlock remembers that moment well; the pain of being shot, the feeling of being crushed from the inside out at seeing John facing the barrels end of a gun and the sheer weight of emotion coasting along his body as John healed his wound.

Sherlock never thought he would willingly be in such a position. Until John Watson that is. How one person could so irrevocably alter how Sherlock views himself and the world is a mystery Sherlock doubts he’ll ever solve, he isn’t even sure if he wants to.

He becomes aware of his surroundings rather quickly.

He’s in John’s bedroom, in John’s bed (if Sherlock turns his head into Johns pillow and deeply breathes in his scent, well, no one will find out) that much is obvious. The curtains have been pulled across the windows and there is an empty cup of tea on the bedside table. The time is 8:00 am according to the clock. _How long have I been asleep?_ Sherlock is unclear on that. Given that he hasn’t slept since arriving on John’s doorstep, has obtained a wound (now healed) and likely experienced an adrenaline crash, Sherlock thinks it possible he’s been asleep for at least day if not more.

 _John._ _Where is he?_

Sherlock sits up abruptly, a wave of pain pounds in his head and he falls back onto the soft, bouncy surface with a groan.

_Stupid, infernal transport._

Oversleep has obviously made Sherlock groggy, because he doesn’t even notice until just then the sound of the shower running from the bathroom adjoining John’s bedroom, and the corresponding echo of John’s heart beat within his chest.

 _This was her bedroom._ Sherlock thinks to himself. The same wallpaper, tasteful and blue, adorns the walls like it did when he was a boy. The thought causes Sherlock’s heart to ache, he is equal parts surprised and relieved when he finds that the ache isn’t as strong as it once was. Time heals all wounds they say, a horribly incorrect colloquialism, time soothes some wounds on occasion would be more accurate.

Perhaps in embracing his love for John, he is soothing the wound of his grandmother’s death? Sherlock has never been able to completely explain the mechanics of soul bonds and love, recently he has realized that is because there are no mechanics, very few at least, it is a reality that can never be fully _explained_ only fully _felt._

Sherlock didn’t lie to John, when he said ‘I am now’ in response to Johns query referring to Sherlock’s statement of his emotions often blinding him from sense, he meant it. Sherlock had been worried, for a long time that if he were to embrace love he would lose all he had gained.

So he maintained a facade of thinking love to be too dangerous to attempt or even admit to. It was naive of him to think that love is a choice.

He may be more vulnerable now, but ultimately, when he reflects on the matter Sherlock realizes he hasn’t actually lost anything, his knowledge, abilities, they’re all still there. The only difference is that John has caused him to regain something he had long ago repressed within the endless rooms of his mind palace; his grandmother insisting that Sherlock possesses a great gift, not just in mind but in heart, a deep and endless ability to love.

It must be true, at least where John Watson is concerned. In fact, he considers loving John and being loved by him to be one of his greatest accomplishments.

Sherlock’s thoughts turn back to his aforementioned “dream”, there is only one logical explanation for it. If it is true, then John may have –

His thoughts are interrupted when the sounds of the shower running ends.

Sherlock has many questions for John.

 

...

 

John exits the shower, the hot water has done its job in refreshing John’s still aching muscles.

His wings trail along the floor behind him as he walks over to the towel rod. John shakes them dry, the metallic sheen covering the vibrant feathers allows the water to roll right off, and then rubs his body down with a towel.

John wraps the towel around his waist and wonders if Sherlock is awake yet.

The poor man has been asleep for the past two days, he has woken up a few times, but it was so brief and he’d nodded back off so quickly John doubts he’ll remember once he wakes up for good. When Sherlock Holmes does sleep, he usually sleeps for very long periods of time. John never thought he’d see even Sherlock asleep for quite that long. He obviously needed it, and John is grateful that the man has finally gotten some much needed rest. At one point he needed to practically stand guard when Mycroft wanted to talk to him, Greg backed him up and the two of them formed a makeshift barricade by standing in front of the door until Mycroft left (though not without a strongly worded reminder to contact him once Sherlock is awake). John understood Mycrofts desire to speak with his brother, probably born more out of concern than any other likely excuse the man gave, Sherlock ultimately needs the rest though and as much as John himself wants to hear his voice, letting Sherlock come to on his own is his priority. 

With Sherlock asleep, the past two days have been uneventful. The most activity happened when they were exiting the house – which John noticed with shock was the very same house they found the second victim in. The lead detective of the area had gotten quite the earful from Sherlock when he found out that the man apparently removed the watch from the former crime scene, believing it to be no longer needed. At that point, Greg (who apparently had been the one to hold John back and remove the binding from his hands) made the point that even though he wasn’t happy about the man’s stupidity either, they were lucky it was somewhere relatively close rather than far away. Sherlock couldn’t argue with that, but he did give Greg a narrowed glare before walking away and expressing a few choice words to one of Mycroft’s men, he’d been the one to make a noise earlier which alerted Sophia Moran to their presence. Surprisingly, Mycroft didn’t interfere and let Sherlock berate the man.

John found out shortly after exiting the house into the cool air that there was a reason why Sophia Moran’s henchman (Jack) didn’t react to the commotion at all, as far as John could tell. At first he thought maybe they managed to take him out without him noticing. Sherlock and Greg informed John that this wasn’t the case.

Jack apparently _had_ noticed the commotion. Sherlock descended the stairs first, prepared to fend off the guard thanks to John’s warning, but when he arrived he found the man –Jack –walking towards him with a key in his outstretched hand. He never fought, and allowed himself to be taken away, since it wasn’t like he could attempt escape and get away with it. His brother had been upstairs, still recovering from his wound. Mostly Jack seemed relieved that his brother was being taken to hospital (via an ambulance) to get proper medical care.

John was honestly surprised, and thought that maybe his words did manage to get through to him at least a little.

It had been a long night before they were able to go back home. Mycroft handled Sophia Moran, taking her away in handcuffs with a security detail into one of the vehicles parked in front of the house. John still felt the vestiges of the whole experience lingering, and he just wanted to get home and pass out for a year or two, and maybe if he were lucky he could get Sherlock to join him.

She didn’t even bat an eye when she was lead right past Sherlock. If John didn’t know better, he might have mistaken her for something undead.

John said he didn’t need treatment he couldn’t do himself, but Sherlock insisted on helping anyway. When they finally arrived at the cottage, John was feeling exhausted from the stress and pain. Sherlock was near dead on his feet the minute they walked into the house and his body finally gave into the urge to rest now that John was safe.

In the end, Sherlock passed out on John’s bed; John stripped him down to his pants and covered him with his duvet. Greg gave John a gentle hug (uncharacteristic for the DI), obviously happy that they all ended up out of relatively unscathed and went to bed himself, and John ended up having to take care of his bruised wing and shoulder himself.

It was a hard day, a hard few days actually, and even though John will always be sad and upset with himself that they couldn’t save any of Sherlock’s people, he’s glad it’s finally over, with Sophia Moran at least. There’s still the ever looming ‘what’s going to happen now’ question, Mycroft insisted that Sherlock is no longer needed in dealing with the vestiges of Moriarty’s network and Sherlock himself said not long ago that he wouldn’t be leaving John. With that in mind, the question makes itself known again.

What now?

John had been avoiding that question, not wanting to confront it until Sherlock awoke. When John went to sleep, woke up, and discovered Sherlock had wrapped himself like a sleepy koala around John’s body, he watched the beautiful younger man, happy in seeing the expression of utter peace on his face. Sherlock had never been so gorgeous as he was in that moment.

The first day comprised of the makeshift stand-off between John, Greg and Mycroft in front of John’s bedroom door, a discussion between the three men regarding what happened, though they were reluctant to delve to deeply into ‘what now’, mainly how to present Sherlock’s return, until Sherlock himself awoke. Mycroft then left, promising to remain close by for now. Greg decided to stay, worried about Sherlock as well. After that, it was quiet. He spent the rest of the day alternating between naps and tea. John reflected on the past several days, his mind often drifting to the sleeping man upstairs. Whatever happened, John decided he would remain by Sherlock’s side. It is where he is meant to be.

John did manage to call Marcus, informing him of all that had happened. To say Marcus was relieved would be an understatement, he wanted to come directly over but John said that Sherlock needed his rest, Marcus, being a father figure to Sherlock readily understood and made John promise to let him know when Sherlock was awake.

The second day, Sherlock still sleeping, John called into the clinic he works at and explained he would be taking a longer leave of absence (though John felt in his gut that he would be making that absence permanent soon) due to a family emergency, he then considered calling Mrs. Hudson...but decided that it is Sherlock’s place to tell her about his return, and he would be reminding him of it too.

John ended up reading a book or working on his laptop for most of the day, on his bed alongside the sleeping Sherlock. John had to quiet himself multiple times when he wanted to laugh after discovering exactly how cuddly a sleeper Sherlock is. Many times Sherlock would move to lay his head on John’s thigh or wrap his arms around his waist or simply spread himself like a starfish with one leg hanging off the bed. He moved around _a lot_. It really was very sweet. John is thinking about telling Sherlock that when he wakes up just to see the look of indignation on his face.

And now, on the third morning, John is ready to exit the bathroom in search of clean clothes. Hopefully today will be the day Sherlock wakes.

In case Sherlock is still asleep, John opens the bathroom door slowly and quietly. He glances towards the bed. The detective is laying precisely where John left him, beneath the covers, the upper half of his chest exposed (John may have had to swallow saliva that threatened to drool over at the sight earlier before John took a shower), head facing towards the ceiling with his eyes closed.

John is half-tempted to take a picture. He shakes his head with a fond smile and walks over to his dresser. With a final glance at the sleeping Sherlock, John faces the drawers and pulls out pants, a pair of trousers, a t-shirt and a navy blue jumper with a bright green circle on the front. That’s another thing John needs to do, other than the underwear, the only clothes he can physically wear now are the ones that used to belong to Marcus. There is a major shopping trip in his near future.

Since Sherlock is asleep, John feels very little concern in dropping his towel and getting dressed. He could go back to the bathroom, but neither John nor Sherlock have ever been exactly modest when it comes to nudity. Modesty wasn’t always an option in the army. And Sherlock...well, Sherlock is the least modest between the two of them, John did have to draw the line once when Sherlock strode through 221b’s living room stark naked to retrieve a book from the shelf and return to his bedroom. That had been awkward, at least on John’s part.

Now, with the still new declarations of their feelings hanging in the air and the undefined nature of the relationship, there is a whole new layer of meaning being naked in Sherlock’s presence. John shivers, warmth filling him from his core. Lack of modesty or not, this is Sherlock Holmes, and he can’t deny there are nerves present as John becomes very, very aware of his nakedness. Briefly John wonders if it would be better to change in the bathroom.

_Don_ _’_ _t be barmy John, the man is asleep and besides, you know you have a nice arse._

John suppresses a snort at his own inner commentary. He rolls his eyes and reaches for his underwear.

“And your very flesh shall be a great poem...”

John jumps at the sudden, clear sound of Sherlock’s voice coming from the bed. He narrowly avoids stubbing his toe. John sighs. _Of course the bugger was awake._

John quickly pulls up his pants. “You scared the shit out of me.” He doesn’t turn to look at Sherlock, waiting for the blush on his cheeks to fade away.

He hears Sherlock chuckle.

John smirks a little.

“Feigning sleep to watch my naked arse getting dressed...if it were anyone else, I might be tempted to point out how blatantly inappropriate that is, but then again, you’re...you, so I don’t expect anything less.” John keeps a teasing smile alight on his face as he continues to dress.

“Come now John, we both know if you really didn’t mind me observing your...impressive physique, you could have easily changed in the bathroom. I was simply taking advantage of the opportunity for study, seeing you in this new light is...interesting.”

John doesn’t think he has ever heard Sherlock speak with such softness before, though there is plenty of his usual light-hearted teasing indicative of Sherlock being in a good mood.

“Interesting in a good way I hope.” John responds while pulling on the navy jumper, carefully maneuvering his wings through the slits in the back.

John hears the faint sounds of sheets moving.

“Very, _very_ good.” Sherlock’s voice is more than little husky.

John finally turns with a raised brow, face bright with amusement.

“And I’ll take the Whitman quote as a compliment.” He leans back against the dresser and casually crosses his arms; observing with delight the sight of Sherlock leaning against the headboard of his bed, duvet pooled around his waist, his hands clasped gently in his lap. “I’m actually surprised you know Leaves of Grass, I figured you wouldn’t find much use in poetry.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitches in a grin. “It does come up during the work on occasion, but perhaps you don’t know me as well as you think you do.”

“Oh I do.” John teases. “Come on, where did you pull that line from really?”

Sherlock puts on a facade of mock affront and John snorts.

“I would have you know I engaged in plenty of-”

_“_ _Sherlock._ _”_

Sherlock sighs. “I solved a murder case when I was twenty two involving a rather fascinating English Professor; he assisted me in return for translating Leaves of Grass into German, it was a gift for his niece who had been studying in Germany at the time and he trusted me to make the most accurate translation possible. She loved Walt Whitman apparently.” Sherlock shrugs.

_Smart arse._

“Of course you did.”

Sherlock looks smug for a moment.

Silence follows for a moment or two. Neither man sure what to say next. Sherlock starts to shift uncomfortably, glancing down at his chest and carefully avoiding looking at John. _Hm_...Perhaps Sherlock is more affected by the newness of the situation than John thought.

When it seems that Sherlock isn’t intending on speaking first, John pushes himself off the dresser and back towards the bed. Sherlock’s head swivels around to face him.

“May I?” John asks with a reassuring smile, gesturing towards the empty half of the bed.

Sherlock looks confused for a moment. “It’s your bed.”

John simply nods. He crawls onto the wide bed and seats himself directly beside Sherlock, closer than he would have before. John’s right wing and Sherlock’s left are gently layered over each other in this position; the pleasant tingle has John feeling happier than he has in a while.

John notices Sherlock’s left hand has fallen away from his right and is resting on his thigh, twitching nervously. John is unsure where this sudden nervousness of Sherlocks is coming from, but eager to calm him John reaches out and places a gentle hand on top of the large one belonging to the violinist.

Sherlock’s hand immediately stills, as does the rest of his body. He looks up at John in something akin to wonder, like a child discovering a new world.

John smiles.

“This is nice, isn’t it?” John asks, squeezing Sherlock’s hand.

“Yes...it is.” Sherlock eventually says with a quiet tone of voice.

“Good.” John follows a sudden urge to be completely silly and leans over to peck Sherlock on the nose.

Sherlock’s nervous ice is broken and he looks at John with narrowed eyes.

 _Mission accomplished._ John grins evilly.

“I would rather not be the cause of your demise, so do not tempt me.”

John leans back.

“Or what?” He challenges.

Suddenly, John’s evil grin seems to have transferred to Sherlock. He barely has time to register Sherlock’s sudden leap of movement (greatly emphasised by the whoosh of his wings) and within seconds he is straddling John on all fours, pinning him to the bed and hovering a threatening hand over the sliver of John’s belly skin that is exposed.

John could get out of this he knows, but to be honest, he is enjoying this carefree moment far too much. Even when vaguely wondering at what a relationship with Sherlock Holmes would be like, he never anticipated anything like _this._

So John allows himself to be pinned and eyes Sherlock’s hand curiously, the gleam of mischief in Sherlock’s eyes is growing brighter... _oh no._

“Sherlock Holmes, don’t you dare!” John growls out, trying not to let the reality of a nearly naked Sherlock hovering over him threaten his composure...he should’ve known it would be fruitless.

John tries to squirm away but he finds himself transfixed by Sherlock’s eyes, in the path of a stray ray of sunlight, he is beautiful, the languid curves of his body are even more appealing and John feels himself weakening, mouth watering.

John doesn’t think it’s possible for Sherlock to look any more pleased with himself.

Sherlock doesn’t say anything; he flutters his fingertips lightly against John’s abdomen.

John laughs, painfully. How the fucking hell did he even...

“You are not tickling me Sherlock Holmes.” John protests.

Sherlock tightens his grip on John when he tries to move away.

“The simplest observation would prove that to be incorrect.”

He does it again, seemingly delighted at Johns response.

This time, John retaliates. He knocks out Sherlock’s legs with his knees and wraps his own around the man’s waist (Sherlock falls on top of him in a rush of breath). He really _really_ tries hard to focus on the closeness of their position as he takes advantage of it in a different way. He quickly turns Sherlock over so that he is now on his back and John is sitting atop him.

Sherlock only looks the slightest bit surprised before resting his hands on Johns denim clad thighs. John can see a shiver dot his skin with goose pimples as John’s silky feathers rest against the detective’s long, naked legs.

“I win.” John bounces slightly and Sherlock grunts.

“You are a ridiculous man.” Sherlock pins John with amused eyes.

“You bring it out in me.” John shrugs with a smile. He becomes startlingly aware of their position and the slow progression of Sherlock’s hands stroking his thighs. Now is probably not the best time to explore... _this._ Albeit reluctantly, John moves off of Sherlock, the man doesn’t protest but he doesn’t look exactly happy either. Sherlock doesn’t move from his prone position on the bed, feet now resting flat against the headboard.

“Knowing you, you probably mean that as a compliment.” Sherlock raises an eyebrow in John’s direction.

“I do.”

Sherlock hums with a sigh, a faint smile tweaking his features.

That silence is back again, this time, John senses that Sherlock is ready to speak. So John remains quiet, listening and feeling Sherlock’s heart beat within his chest.

Sherlock’s eyes turn abruptly curious as he focuses a scrutinizing gaze on John.

John cocks him a questioning look.

“You’ve been dreaming of my past, or more accurately, dreaming my memories.”

John blinks. _Wow_...well, John certainly wasn’t expecting that to come out of Sherlock’s mouth.

John suddenly feels guilty for not saying anything sooner, even though he couldn’t control it, seeing something so personal from Sherlock’s life without permissions feels invasive.

Sherlock doesn’t look upset, merely curious. John will take that as a good sign.

“Um, yeah, three times. How did you-?”

“I dreamt the memory of you falling to my side after I was shot in Sophia Moran’s basement; it was largely from your perspective.” Sherlock states.

 _What the hell..._ Johns face twists in confusion. _How is that..._ Variations of the same broken question flit around John’s mind, _what is going on?_ John is about to voice that thought when Sherlock leaps from the bed and begins pacing, not anxiously, but in thought; his hands pressed palms together and resting against his chin.

John feels an ache in his chest when he once again notices the scars marring Sherlock’s back.

“It appears we have another soul ability. One I have never heard of, which probably means it’s new, or at the very least incredibly rare.” Sherlock posits, he turns to John, face bright. John may be greatly confused as to what’s going on, but seeing Sherlock with that look on his face, much like he gets when he is particularly enthused about a new experiment or an especially intriguing case, is wonderful. “What memories of mine have you dreamt?” Sherlock asks, clearly forcing himself to be patient in waiting for Johns answer.

“Ok, well, three I think. The first was of here, at the cottage. It was spring, and there was a little boy playing in the backyard, near a collection of beehives. He got stung, and then an older woman appeared and helped treat him.” John says, watching Sherlock carefully. He’s stopped pacing and is focusing on John intently, but something in gaze shuttered closed as John spoke, and the earlier expression of enthusiasm has dimmed slightly. “That was you and your grandmother, right?” John adds softly. Sherlock glances away from John, a vulnerability evident in the line of his mouth and crease between his eyebrows. He nods. “She was beautiful.” John speaks with a sad smile.

Sherlock’s smile, though small, mirrors Johns own; tinged with sadness. However, John notices sorrow isn’t quite as...all encompassing as it was before.

Sherlock closes his eyes briefly before shaking his head in a quick, jerky movement. He looks back at John, his face no longer expressing the emotions John can still feel roiling and just beginning to settle within Sherlock, though John is pleased to see Sherlock’s is expression is less guarded and more open.

And though there is a slight wariness around his eyes, the genuine sparkles of curiosity are back; just not as predominant as before.

“Continue.” Sherlock utters the word sharply, motioning for John to keep talking. The detective, clad only in his pants, resumes his thoughtful pacing.

John breathes deeply.

“The second one was also at the cottage, it was winter this time. You were a bit older, playing in the snow-” Though John knows this memory doesn’t end in a happy place, in began in one and he can’t help but smile at the memory of a young Sherlock doing something as joyful and mundane as playing in the snow. “-and she was there again, your grandmother, I remember she was wearing a turquoise coat-” Sherlock is nodding along at this point; his body has regained some of its earlier tension though, since this is a memory, he probably knows where this is heading. “-Marcus was there too, younger obviously, and he picked you up, you weren’t happy at first but then you laughed. And then...” John hesitates. Sherlock pauses near the end of the bed; he looks at John with mild confusion and frantically waves him to continue. “Then she collapsed, Marcus told you to call an ambulance...Yeah, that’s pretty much it.” John doesn’t mention the shock on young Sherlock’s face, watching as the person he loves most collapse for no reason, and seeing Marcus so obviously distressed.

John waits for some sign of anguish from Sherlock; however, other than a feeling of lingering and resigned grief, Sherlock appears to have gathered his senses and is keeping his emotions in check. He continues to pace, a bit slower than before.

John resumes without further indication from Sherlock.

“The third one was in a hospital room.” John eyes Sherlock. The man stops pacing at that point, a penetrating gaze fixating on the wall in front of him; those nimble hands still rest against the curve of his lips. Cautiously, John continues, deciding to keep the exact details to a minimum. “You were much older there. Your grandmother was lying on the bed, asleep, you and Marcus were there. She was...dying. She told you to love yourself, love what you do and hold onto the people you love and who love you for as long as you can-” John remembers that part very clearly. He stops when he sees Sherlock close his eyes in memory; there is an intense frown on his face. John stands up and moves closer to Sherlock. “She also mentioned bees.”

This gets a smile out of Sherlock. Those magnificent eyes open and he turns to face John, there is a faint shine to his eyes but other than that...he doesn’t look particularly sad, even though the droop of his wings and barely there smile indicate he is not unaffected by the memory John just recounted.

 _I hope you realize that you will have me for the rest of your life._ John had pondered the extreme sentimentality of saying that to Sherlock Holmes. However in this instance, John decided to take the risk of being a lovesick fool. It is nothing but the truth after all.

Sherlock looks momentarily surprised at hearing Johns voice inside his head instead of out loud.

 _I hope so._ Sherlock parrots softly.

John nods with understanding.

“Until she died, I had seriously considered raising my own bees, pursuing science and performing experiments on the side. I didn’t find my niche in crime-solving until later.” Sherlock speaks as though their brief telepathic exchanged didn’t happen, eyes cast downward for a moment before returning to Johns. “She did leave me the cottage in her will.”

“Oh?” John takes a risk and places a hand on Sherlock’s arm. The detective doesn’t throw it off.

Sherlock hums. “Until recently, I had never been back ever since...well, it’s irrelevant now.”

John shakes his head. “No it isn’t.” John utters softly, stroking his palm down Sherlock’s arm.

Sherlock gives a noncommittal shrug and walks away, John’s hand falls back down to his side. “Perhaps not.” Sherlock’s eyes gain a faraway look. “My knowledge in melittology remained ashamedly basic after her death.”

John recognizes that glint in Sherlock’s eye and he smiles.

“Is it something you would like to pursue now?” John asks. If you were to have asked John two years ago if he thought Sherlock Holmes, of all people, would have an interest in studying bees, he probably would’ve laughed his arse off. Now...now anything is possible. Although, imagining Sherlock in the garb of a beekeeper...John has to try very hard not to laugh.

Sherlock grunts. “Maybe.” He shakes himself out of his thoughtful trance and returns his intense gaze back towards John. “Back on topic, I believe I know why you dreamt those specific memories, why I recounted your memory of...?”

John understands the pause and responds in kind.

“Two days ago.”

Sherlock nods. “And why I assume you haven’t dreamt any more of my memories correct?”

John had wondered why he suddenly hadn’t been dreaming those vivid times from Sherlock’s life, but of course Sherlock would figure that out.

“I admit I have been curious about-”

“It’s because I’ve been asleep for two days, and you haven’t come into close contact with me before you yourself went to sleep while I was pondering a particular memory. I had a lot on my mind before I essentially went to sleep for two days, but nothing so specific while I was touching you.”

_[...erm, what?_

“You lost me.”

Sherlock sighs in exasperation. John isn’t sure whether to feel relieved or irked at the ‘I’m surrounded by idiots’ look on Sherlock’s face.

“Oh come now John, I’m sure even you are smarter than the average idiot to figure it out. It is quite obvious actually.” Sherlock shrugs and waves offhandedly.

John’s mouth twists and he glares – though half-heartedly – at Sherlock.

“Well I’m certainly glad to see your newfound emotional awareness hasn’t altered your personality in _any_ way.” He sounds sarcastic, but John finds he actually means it.

He did fall in love with the often abrasive, inconsiderate madman after all.

“If you must know however, I’ll explain it to you.” Sherlock continues as though he didn’t hear John, but the amused lilt to his mouth indicates otherwise. “It’s rather fascinating actually, I regret underestimating the many possibilities a bond such as ours presents. Perhaps this warrants further study...” Sherlock is getting that fast pace excitement in his voice, that hitch in his breath when he discovers something entirely new; his brain ever hungry to absorb fresh knowledge and what he deems interesting information. Even his wings are fluttering happily in a way you wouldn’t expect the floor length limbs capable of doing.

John really has missed this.

“For now though, I’ll give you an example. If I were to put much, if not all, my focus and emotion, I suspect intense emotion is key here, onto one memory while I was touching you-” Sherlock demonstrates by placing his large hand alongside John’s neck. John shivers. “-and you were to fall asleep within the next few hours, the exact time frame is unclear to me at this point, you would then experience the memory as though it were a dream. Memories of my grandmother have been persistently on my mind ever since I arrived here. And when you were treating the scars on my back, I was thinking about that moment with the bee sting. The second time at the second crime scene, when we had that...moment, I had been thinking about the moment my grandmother’s illness started. Trying to remind myself what loving someone brings. The third one was after your injury in the forest; I think that one is fairly self-explanatory.” Sherlock’s voice grows quieter during that last part.

John’s eyes widen.

“Oh...”

Sherlock looks pleased.

“See? Not that difficult to comprehend.” Sherlock doesn’t remove his hand from John’s neck.

“I don’t know about that...” John mutters. “So you’re saying one of our many soul bond abilities is to telepathically communicate an emotionally intense memory to the other and they will experience it via dream.” John pauses. Sherlock nods. “Right, so I’ve dreamt your memories by accident because you had been in close contact with me at some point while thinking about those moments with your grandmother?” John asks. A bit more solemn, Sherlock nods again. John feels that hand begin to slip away. Without thinking John reaches up and holds that hand to his face. Sherlock doesn’t argue. “You dreamt my memory of seeing you shot because I was thinking about it a lot, how it made me feel, while obviously touching you.” John pauses. _Even while you were sleeping,_ John adds inwardly.

“Precisely.”

Sherlock’s palm feels warm and pleasant against John’s cheek.

“Do you really think this...ability is new?” That baffles John, and he wonders why he and Sherlock would somehow spark something like being able to dream each other’s memories. It just seems so...odd, and yet wonderful in a weird way.

Sherlock grunts in consideration.

“A new soul ability hasn’t been discovered in over fifty years, I say it’s about time for that to change.” Sherlock’s index finger begins to lightly scratch the stubble on John’s cheek. John opens his mouth to ask another question. “You’re wondering why now, why this ability, why us.” Sherlock states when he reads John’s questions plain on his face.

John nods. “I am. Aren’t you?”

Sherlock merely smiles. He leans down. John is careful not to move when he feels soft, still tentative lips brush his own.

The touch sends such a strong, gloriously electrifying feeling that has John seriously considering his lifespan. Is death by kisses even possible?

Sherlock pulls back.

“What was-” John begins to ask, but is interrupted by Sherlock’s hand moving from his cheek to press gently against his mouth.

“If there is one thing recent experiences have taught me, it is that some questions cannot be answered, mostly when it comes to matters of the heart and soul. I do not know why and right now...I don’t care to find the answers, maybe I will attempt to in the future.”

John smirks and removes Sherlock’s hand from his mouth, keeping a firm grasp on it.

“Maybe?” He teases.

“Mm, most definitely.”

John laughs. Overcome, he throws his arms around Sherlock’s naked torso and embraces him tightly. It only takes a moment, but eventually Sherlock returns the embrace with equal strength; their wings enveloping in each other in such a way that can only be describe as _home._

They are quiet as they continue to hold each other.

In the distance they can both hear the beginnings of Greg doing something in the kitchen, and soon afterwards there is a rather loud crash and subsequent curse.

“I may have to exact revenge if Greg broke my grandmother’s china.”

John gives loud bark of laughter.

“I don’t know which is more difficult to believe, that you remembered his name or that you give a fib about china.”

Sherlock shrugs. “I always remember his name.”

John leans back at that, giving Sherlock a dubious look; the taller man is very obviously smirking.

“Then why do you-”

“It annoys him. Tit for tat, so they say, much like when I pickpocket him.”

John blinks. “You are such a child.” John tries to sound scolding but he ends up laughing again, hiding his face in Sherlock’s shoulder.

He can feel Sherlock laughing too.

“I couldn’t care less about my grandmother’s ancient dishes; I do however find myself immensely enjoying the sound of your laughter.” Sherlock chuckles with a squeeze around the shorter man.

John’s laughter dies down into a watery smile, at the moment glad Sherlock cannot see his face.

“I can’t believe how much I love you.” John murmurs into Sherlock’s neck. He feels a shiver run through the detective.

Sherlock doesn’t answer for a moment.

“The feeling is mutual.”

After a few more breaths, John steps back but keeps his hands on Sherlock’s biceps. The taller man, curly hair in adorable disarray, looks at John with a faint look of confusion, trying to pull John back into his arms.

John shakes his head and places his palms on Sherlock’s chest. The contact is invigorating.

Sherlock stops trying to pull John back and fixes him with those impatient eyes.

John wants to ask the question, is it too soon? Maybe he should let Sherlock ask it on its own; he did say he needed time to...think on their relationship.

Sherlock’s behaviour this morning, the emotions emanating to John through their bond and everything they’ve talked about indicate something has changed, other than Sophia Moran’s demise.

John has the question on the tip of tongue when Sherlock speaks.

“I only ever truly needed time to acclimatize myself to the idea of being in an...intimate relationship with you, I never considered myself romantic partner material nor desired to be one for a long time. You are a remarkable man John Watson, and as far as I’m concerned we’ve been partners, in every sense, for a long time. And I hope we will continue to be.” Sherlock is firm and steady, reciting those words to John with unwavering focus. The only sign that Sherlock is at all nervous about John’s reaction is the increased beating of his heart and faint traces of fear in his eyes. “If you’ll have me.”

John’s mouth parts. He’s speechless.

 _How did I ever doubt..._ John’s thoughts come to an abrupt halt as he desperately tries to get a hold of the overwhelming wave of emotion he feels at Sherlock’s words.

John slides his hands up to Sherlock’s face.

“Of course I’ll have you, idiot.”

The exchange feels too much like a marriage proposal. In the face of their soul bond and connection...for once John will agree with Sherlock that marriage seems trivial in comparison.

Who knows what will happen though?

Sherlock smiles. John doesn’t say anything when he notices the brightness of tears in Sherlock’s eyes.

“What happens now?” John asks after a moment.

“Now my dear Watson, I will shower, you will proceed downstairs and make the both of us tea. Then you will tell me what I’ve missed these past two days.” Sherlock leans down to peck John on the top of his head before darting away and into the bathroom. He closes the door behind him with a final, soft glance in John’s direction.

John laughs happily and follows Sherlock’s instructions; tea would be awfully good right about now.

He casts a final look around his bedroom, lingering on the messed up bed, before exiting; a smile on his face he doubts will ever go away.

It’s a new beginning.


	21. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I decided to just go ahead and post the epilogue, which means this is the end of the story. Lots of love and hugs to all those who have been reading! It really means a lot that this is getting a positive reception <3  
> Anyway, here's the end! Hope you like it :)

Epilogue

 

The past year started out being hectic. For nearly three weeks after the business with Sophia Moran concluded, it had been almost non-stop activity. In some ways, John was grateful for the change, spending two years doing next to nothing is much too long. On the other hand, John would’ve liked to relax for at least a little while, settle into his new relationship with Sherlock, and ponder which direction his life should take now. On the first day when Sherlock awoke, Marcus visited; he’d hugged Sherlock so tightly it looked like the poor man was going to explode. Sherlock could barely restrain his laughter when Marcus turned right around and bestowed the same embrace on John.

Later, Mycroft made one final visit before returning to London. That had been a long talk primarily between Sherlock and himself. John had gone for a walk, Greg joined him, and when they came back Mycroft informed John that even though Sherlock’s physical presence wasn’t required for the ensured demise of every single thread of Moriatry’s network, the latter few underlings were turning out to be more trouble than Mycroft initially assumed.

This lead to the decision that Sherlock would need to return to London, so he would be more closer to Mycroft’s resources and readily available to any connections he still had left after two years. John recognized that it would ultimately be for the best, since now that Sherlock was back for good, he could orchestrate his return to the general populace as well.

Sherlock was obviously unsettled when he approached John afterwards, and asked John if he would be coming with him to London, back to 221b (since Mycroft informed them that Mrs. Hudson hasn’t let out the flat since Sherlock’s “death” and so it is available). John didn’t even have to think. Yes he had built a half-life here, and yes the countryside is gorgeous and he’ll miss the homey feel of the cottage, but his true home is with Sherlock. If he had to return to London, so would John. In truth, his decision to go wasn’t just about Sherlock. He missed London, the bustling metropolis and the eccentric comfort of 221b, no place has ever felt more like home to him. Even without Sherlock.

Besides, they could always come to the cottage someday. In the mean time, Sherlock had offered Marcus the place, stating that he would be pleased to know his grandmother’s home was being put to use, and that she would be happy as well.

Marcus cried. Sherlock looked deeply humbled when Marcus told him how grateful he was to know such a wonderful young man and that Genie would be proud.

John officially quit the clinic and it was with a glad soul, and relief pouring through his veins when Sherlock and John arrived at 221b; the sight of the familiar, black aging door and gold lettering were balms to John’s heart.

It was an almost perfect moment, idyllic in a way, until Sherlock opened the door at the precise moment Mrs. Hudson exited her own flat.

The subsequent screaming, fainting, and fierce hugging from the motherly woman was nothing short of intense. To say she was overjoyed to see Sherlock alive would be an understatement, she cried and told him that in no uncertain terms was he to ever pull a stunt like that again.

John tried very hard not to laugh at the scolding Sherlock was receiving from the fierce woman, but he obviously failed and that was when Mrs. Hudson saw him. She was righteously pissed at him also, John couldn’t blame her because he had been avoiding talking to/seeing her for a long while.

Mrs. Hudson was also very unsurprised to see that Sherlock and John had connected on the deepest soul level _‘_ _I always knew you boys would get there eventually_ _’_ and didn’t even bat an eye, except to squeal with delight, when John embarrassed Sherlock further and pecked the man on the nose _again._

After the reunion, Mrs. Hudson escorted them upstairs with a tray of tea in her hands. She explained that she couldn’t bear to let out the flat and came up every once in a while to dust and do a general cleaning. So the flat was in relatively good condition and exactly the same as John left it when he moved to the cottage.

Seeing Sherlock in his element again, and the contemplative look on his face with a happy smile twisting those gorgeous lips (the smile of a man finally coming _home_ ) was nothing short of marvelous.

It didn’t take them long to settle back in. Molly and Greg came by to help John unpack his few belongings from the cottage, he didn’t really need the help but John allowed the excuse since he figured that Molly really just wanted to see them, and Greg really wanted to see Molly. It was a win-win. To everyone’s surprise, Sherlock helped, though only up to a point. It wasn’t long before he had a map of photos and reports taped to the wall and was examining them with the utmost focus, determined to put every shred of Moriarty behind them.

That took three months. During that time, John resurrected his blog much to the delight of their fans. Sherlock only made one disparaging comment about it, John called that progress.

John and Sherlock were able to settle into the dynamic of their relationship with only a few hurdles, soul bond or not being in a romantic relationship with Sherlock Holmes is not easy. They made it work though and the two are better men for it. Communicating telepathically became more a habit during cases or when they were out, at home they tended to prefer speaking aloud. Unless someone was visiting, like Mycroft. The rift forged by Mycrofts betrayal is still being mended, but mending none-the-less. Several times John either had to restrain himself from laughing or playfully smacking Sherlock upside the head for making rather mean comments about his brother. He suspects Mycroft knew exactly what they were doing though, as he would often sigh and call them childish.

As for their other soul abilities, after they became consciously aware of the memory/dream sharing it almost never happened accidentally. Sherlock rarely did it by choice, and when he did it was usually after John and he had a fight. Sherlock would show him a memory of his favourite moments when he loved John the most, and John would wake up wondering what on earth they were fighting about. Of course he suspected Sherlock would use it as a subtle way of manipulation when he wanted to placate an irate John, but the emotion in the memory/dream was so genuine John let slide when the fight was about something not all that important. Often though, the two of them would share memories when they didn’t know how to talk about something in words. John about his mother and Sherlock about his grandmother are just a couple examples. This didn’t happen all that much, but when it did it meant a lot.

The ability to heal each other’s wounds became a very useful asset in their daily life.

After the rest of Moriarty’s empire was obliterated, Sherlock eased back into cases and his various experiments, both at home and at St Bart’s. John got a part time position at St Bart’s hospital working in the emergency room a couple times a week, when he wasn’t at home, out to the pub with Greg (discussing their relationships – Johns with Sherlock and Greg’s budding one with Molly Hooper – among other things) or working on a case with Sherlock, John was usually there.

On occasion, more often than not as time passed, John would catch him researching bees and every once in a while Sherlock would make an offhand comment about the creatures, usually over breakfast and on one memorable occasion he mentioned that when male honeybees mate with the Queen their endophallus is ripped from their abdomen and they die not long afterwards...what made it memorable was that Sherlock voiced that particular tidbit after John and he had sex for the third time. John had smacked Sherlock with his pillow and couldn’t stop simultaneously laughing and staring at his partner in horror for several minutes, begging the man not to bring up the gruesome mating practises of other species before, during or after sex.

John wanted to kiss the man when Sherlock gave him a look that could almost be considered disappointment.

Needless to say, life went on in a cycle of pleasant domesticity, adrenaline simultaneously chaos and adventure. John could never remember being this happy, and there was a new light to Sherlock’s face whenever John looked at him, gave him a kiss or said something uncharacteristically clever and John knew Sherlock felt the same.

 

It is now Christmas Eve, over a year since Sherlock returned.

John is reflecting on the past several months with a glass of warm brandy in his hand, while lounging in his armchair by the 221b fireplace and staring into flames with a smile on his face. The atmosphere of the living room exudes a delightfully pleasant atmosphere, the twinkling of white lights borders the windows and the dim firelight only seems to add to the coziness.

Sherlock had been playing the violin for nearly the entire day, and when John questioned him about it, noticing that Sherlock was deep in thought about something, Sherlock didn’t appear to hear him so John left him to it.

Sherlock’s avid interest in cases, though as intent and thorough as ever, has waned in its vigor over the past few months. John has tried talking to Sherlock about it, worried that something was wrong. Sherlock assured him there wasn’t, and the answering reassuring emotion John could feel through the bond confirmed that Sherlock wasn’t in distress per se, so John didn’t push the matter.

He wonders if what has had Sherlock so distracted today is related.

Now Sherlock is sitting across from him, his long and elegant wings draped over the sides of the chair, shimmering in the firelight. He is wearing a deep burgundy dressing gown with pale grey pyjamas. His long fingers are pressed against his mouth; John feels a satisfying blush rise to his cheeks when he thinks about what those very fingers have made him feel that no other lover has quite managed to do.

John is pointedly ignoring the intense stare Sherlock is sending his way, and has been for the past several minutes. John suspects that there is something Sherlock’s wanted to express to John and has been either working up the courage or waiting for the opportunity to say it.

In the mean time, John is content to sit by the fire and enjoy the comforting burn of the brandy as it runs down his throat and the occasional Christmas biscuit from the plate to his right. Mrs. Hudson delivered the freshly baked goods to them a few hours ago as a treat in celebration of the holiday.

John has just taken another sip of brandy and subsequent deep breath when Sherlock speaks for the first time that day.

“You’re happy.” That deep voice pierces the silence of the flat.

John is somewhat startled by the sudden words. He moves his gaze away from the fire and onto a very determined looking Sherlock.

“I am.” John says with a curious cock of his head. _Where is he going with this?_

Sherlock shifts a bit in his chair.

“You wouldn’t want to leave London.” Sherlock states again, his voice taking on a tone John isn’t quite sure how to take.

Sherlock’s emotions are a bit more guarded than usual, but John can’t sense anything particularly distressing other than a vague sense of uncertainty.

John frowns and puts his brandy down on the small end table beside the chair.

“Where is this coming from?” John asks. John figured out of the two of them Sherlock would be the least likely to want to leave London. Sherlock fit right back into the city with a grace John admired.

Sherlock shifts in his chair again, this time it is he who looks at the fire in contemplation.

“I received an email from Marcus early this morning.”

“Ok...?” John encourages Sherlock elaborate.

They’ve visited the older man at the cottage maybe once since they left; it became far more common for Marcus to visit them in London instead. Insisting the trip was good for keeping his old bones kicking around for a while longer, John as a doctor had mixed feelings but Marcus is nearly as stubborn as Sherlock.

“Marcus is retiring and moving to live with his brother in Scotland in the spring.” Sherlock says, still not looking directly at John.

 _Huh, good for him,_ Johns thinks inwardly. Marcus may be a stubborn old fellow, but he is getting on in years. John wonders if maybe Marcus moving farther away has something to do with Sherlock’s mood, but then why would he ask about... _wait._

John breathes in sharply.

“ _Oh._ ”

Sherlock abruptly looks up at him.

“You want to move to the cottage?” John asks with no small amount of surprise. John certainly wasn’t expecting _that._ What else could Sherlock be implying though if not that?

“You may have noticed my interest in cases has been lackluster these past months, they no longer hold my attention as they once did.” John honestly thought he would never, not in a million years, hear those words come out of Sherlock’s mouth. The man lived and breathed his passion for solving the unsolvable. However, it is true, John has noticed so he nods along. “I have suspected that my experiences dismantling Moriarty’s network and with Sophia Moran may have something to do with that. The thrill of the chase, though still invigorating, is only vaguely satisfying rather than holding the attention of my mind. I am not bored, but they no longer provide me with what I need.” Sherlock is no longer twitching nervously. He is however watching John with a careful eye, as though expecting John to jump in with protests at any moment.

“Alright, hm, well...” John frowns in thought, not quite sure what to say. He looks around 221b, a place that has been an ironically safe haven by offering him the danger he needed after being invalided from Afghanistan, a haunting presence when he thought he lost Sherlock and the warm comfort of an old friend when Sherlock and he moved back last year.

 _Could he leave?_ Sherlock sounds entirely serious. The cases, the work, have been just as important to him as they have been for Sherlock, albeit in a different way. John had this idea that they would continue solving cases, the two of them against the rest of the world, until they were greying old men.

Sherlock seems to sense John’s doubt and abruptly begins speaking again, explaining himself quickly.

“I understand if you do not wish to go, I myself never thought I would leave London, and certainly not to live in my grandmother’s cottage. It is sedate, far too quiet and mundane. Residing in the country is not where I pictured myself living at forty years of age...” Sherlock’s voice trails off.

“I’m sensing a ‘but’ coming.” John interjects.

Sherlock continues as if he didn’t hear him.

“However, throughout my childhood and teen years – a time I normally don’t like thinking about – I always imagined ending up there. Obviously that changed, and the only thing that could calm my racing mind was drugs, and eventually cases. Now I find myself...revisiting old pursuits I either put to rest or treated more as a hobby than anything else.” Sherlock takes a deep breath as though steeling himself for what he is about to say next. “My grandmother said to me once she hoped I would find the person I would love for the rest of my life, and that one day I may want to settle down, as much as I was able to. Even then I was a spirited child guided primarily by my love of logical thought, science and an obsession with bees. While she was sick, she told me that she wanted me to live in her home. She said no one else would appreciate it the way she knew I would. And I wanted to, eventually I fully intended on living there, maybe build myself a makeshift lab and keep bees in the garden. When she died however, all my desire to do that died with her.” Sherlock’s hands fall from his face to rest on his thighs, his eyes fall with them and he tweaks the folds of his dressing gown with a small amount of restlessness.

John pushes himself off his chair and moves to kneel by Sherlock’s feet, compelled to be nearer to Sherlock after hearing the depth of his confession. Words he never expected to hear, and yet John is not at all surprised by them either. In a way, they make sense. The grief of losing his grandmother repressed any desire he once had to pursue what he originally wanted, once he truly dealt with that, it would’ve been like a gateway being opened; discovering old wants and dreams again.

John will refrain from making any personal decisions on the matter for the moment, though even now John knows that wherever Sherlock goes, he’ll go. Besides, John has been thinking for a while of furthering his writing. He would miss the cases, no doubt, but living in country with Sherlock does hold its own unique form of appeal.

“I understand.” John reaches out and grasps Sherlock’s hands, fixing the man he loves with the sincerest of gazes.

Sherlock looks surprised, his mouth parting slightly.

“You do?”

“I do.” John repeats, kissing Sherlock’s knuckles. Suddenly, John realizes he doesn’t need to think on it. “I have noticed you haven’t been as into the cases lately, although you’ve still been as brilliant as usual-” Sherlock preens at the words and John rolls his eyes fondly. “-if moving to Sussex is something you truly want to do, and you won’t kill yourself from boredom after a few months, then let’s do it. You can raise bees, and I admit I’ve been thinking about pursuing my writing more professionally and I can easily do that anywhere. My only condition is that if you still want to do experiments, don’t do it in the kitchen and leave my jumpers _alone._ ” John says this all with a smile. “And before you say anything-” John starts when doubt clouds Sherlock’s features. “-I am not just saying this for your benefit. Would I have been happy living in London for the rest of my life? Solving cases with you, chasing suspects through streets until my legs fell off from old age? Yes, I would have, but only if I got to do all that with _you_. I am happiest when I am with you, whether it’s living in a flat in London or a cottage in Sussex, if I have you by my side and we both get to do what we love, I can live anywhere. And that cottage is very gorgeous, I didn’t get to appreciate it much when I was living there. I think it could be a new and interesting adventure getting to start an entirely new life with you within its walls.”

Sherlock blinks, the doubt fades and amusement takes its place.

“You truly are disgustingly romantic John Watson. I am sure the general populace would appreciate that poetic edge to your writing, I’ve heard ordinary people enjoy that sort of thing.”

“Oh shut up.” John lightly smacks his thigh as he pushes himself to standing, stretching his arms far above his head.

Below him he feels strong hands begin to gently fondle his soft pudgy waist.

“Do you mean it?” Sherlock mumbles into the skin of his stomach.

John shivers and lays a gentle hand on Sherlock’s head.

There is a lot more they need to discuss and think about, just to be sure this is what they really want, arrangements would need to be made and questions including ‘how soon do they want to do this’will need to be asked.

In the mean time, John will answer Sherlock’s question.

“Yes.” And that is the truth.

He can feel Sherlock smile into the sliver of his belly Sherlock has exposed by lifting the bottom half of his jumper, the fingers of his hands reach out and gently stroke John’s feathers. The intimacy of this moment speaks volumes about the amount of love these men share, they are very lucky indeed.

The clock strikes midnight and John combs his fingers through Sherlocks glorious curls.

“Happy Christmas Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock pulls away from John and looks at him with eyes and wings beautifully illuminated by the firelight.

“Happy Christmas John Watson.”

 

They move into the Sussex cottage seven months later.

 

 

 

_Forty years later..._

 

 

 

John Watson has had a wonderful life. Filled with equal parts adventure and peace, love and heartache, there is not one thing he would change in his over eighty years of being alive.

Except maybe to have been spared the pain of losing many of his loved ones, but then Sherlock would’ve been left alone if John died before his time and though he knows one of them will have to bear that pain eventually, sooner rather than later, John wakes up every day and thanks whatever powers that be for the joy of seeing Sherlock’s face; now wrinkled with age, hair nearly white, though his eyes are no less intense than they were in his thirties.

Even after all these years the novelty of being with the most amazing human being he’s ever known has yet to wear off.

John considers himself the luckiest man on earth.

Once they moved to the cottage, they never looked backed and have lived there ever since. They visited London often, though they haven’t gone for many years once the problems of old age inhibited their ability to travel.

John has trouble walking, the advantage of having wings has never been more apparent than it is now, most of the time he can gently fly himself around when his legs fail him, though the somewhat cramped interior of the house makes this difficult.

Sherlock is lucky to have never garnered any major ailments other than kidney stones in his sixties. The only loss came when Sherlock started to lose his hair, John still laughs jovially at the sight of Sherlock’s growing bald patch. And Sherlock still glares at him with beady eyes every time he does so.

In truth, John is most grateful for the fact that neither man has lost the teasing playful nature of their relationship. While many other aspects have changed, that is one that hasn’t.

Sherlock continued to pursue his science experiments well into his seventies before he became too tired to continue, once he made the decision to retire that aspect of his life he chose to focus all of his remaining energy on his bees. Other than moments with John, Sherlock is rarely as happy as he is when tending to the bees in their garden. The amount of honey Sherlock has made all these years is astounding. One of John’s most precious rituals is having a warm English Muffin with melted honey drizzled lightly over it, no matter how many times John eats it (which must surely be in the thousands by now) it is still as heavenly as it was when Sherlock completed his first honey harvest many years ago.

John did pursue his writing, and even published a few books. Chronicles of all the adventures Sherlock and he have shared, some he never even published on the blog. They sold incredibly well and became enormously popular, John is proud of his work. Although he will always be proudest of the fact that he and Sherlock have managed to keep their relationship strong and loving throughout all these years, they never got married, but they never had any particular desire to. They knew they were committed to each other for life, which is all that mattered.

John is mulling over all those thoughts and more as he rocks gently back and forth in the wicker chair outside the back door of the cottage; his eyes watching his partner move his aged limbs around the bee hives, smoking them and gathering the golden honey.

As if sensing his gaze, Sherlock looks over when he finishes with the last hive and lifts the veil to uncover his face; exposing many wrinkles which express a life well lived and well loved. He gives John a smile and starts walking over to him, his wings (no less magnificent than they were on the day he got them) trailing behind.

John, slightly shaky and with great effort pushes himself out of the chair. They meet each other halfway.

“How are they?” John asks, his voice deep and roughened with time.

Sherlock nods proudly.

“Very well, they have quite recovered from the loss of the other hives from last year. I may need to purchase a few more, I’m getting the impression they are eager for expansion.” Sherlock leans down and kisses John on his weathered forehead.

Before he can move too far away John returns the favour and presses his lips to Sherlock’s nose. The taller man stopped pretending to be bothered by those kisses years ago.

“Will you be able to handle more?” John reaches for his free hand and they move towards the cottage.

Sherlock laughs, the sound still so beautiful.

“I’m perfectly capable of handling more hives _old man_.”

John smacks him, though since he has arthritis it is half-hearted at best.

“Oi! You’re not _that_ much younger than me.”

Sherlock turns to him with a twinkle in his eyes.

“But still younger.”

John rolls his eyes. “You’re still a bastard.”

Sherlock opens the back door and holds it open for John.

“You know you love me.”

“Unfortunately.” John teases. He feels a light smack to his bum as he enters the kitchen and he turns to fix Sherlock with a mock glare.

And that is how their time goes nowadays; happy and growing old together. When they die, it will be with smiles on their faces and no regrets.

And it will be a life well lived.

 

_Fin_


End file.
